Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

12. GRAYSON

12

GRAYSON

“Hi.” I stretched my lips into a smile, hoping it looked more charming than strained because this redheaded barista might be my last hope of finding Ivy’s identity.

I’d given Ivy my identity—my first name, at least—after a quick calculation of my options. Giving a fake name had been my knee-jerk reaction, but we hadn’t formally planned this little mission with an alias. My last alias, Hawke, wasn’t just burned; it went up in flames in an operation that nearly cost me more than my cover.

Plus, I grew up here in Chicago, so there was always a risk of someone I knew greeting me by the name of Grayson. The CIA was skilled at burying your sins while keeping your legal name clean, so with only a few seconds to make that decision, I gave her my real first name.

Not that it helped. After the encounter, she disappeared into the crowded streets of Chicago. I followed her, of course, and while I certainly wasn’t a skilled PI, accustomed to tracking targets, Ivy was either incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky to have lost her tail. I had maintained a larger distance behind her, on account of her already having met me in the coffee shop, and also because, unlike her demeanor on the city bus, she kept looking over her shoulder.

The way Ivy glanced back wasn’t just cautious; it was practiced, like she was used to being chased.

I tracked her for three city blocks before I lost sight of her for what I thought was only a moment. But as that moment turned into ten, then twenty, I cursed under my breath, wondering how in the world one lone woman could evade a CIA operative.

Had I’d been too quick to presume her innocence?

As if the day hadn’t been bad enough, I’d resorted to going into every single establishment up and down the block I’d last seen her, all to no avail.

Chances were, I would have to report yet another failure to my boss before the day was over, but I refused to go that route unless I had to—it was grinding on my last nerve that another screwup was on the horizon, and that it might take us forever to comb through all that footage and run it against facial recognition software. Just to uncover a name. Meanwhile, a violent arms dealer was loose in Chicago, and the clock was ticking to find him.

So, I’d stomped back to this damn coffee shop to ask around. An absolute Hail Mary—this was Chicago, not a small town, but here I was, posing as a customer, smiling like I was Prince Charming rather than the villain.

“What can I get you?” The barista’s voice was flat.

If this woman knew how rare it was for me to smile, she wouldn’t return it with a damn scowl.

“I have a question, actually.”

She should also appreciate what a treat it was, my using this friendly tone, but annoyance coated her features.

I’d once had to climb over six decomposing bodies to reach my target. This woman’s resting screw you face was an even more unpleasant obstacle than that one, and it made it even harder to keep up my nice-guy act.

“Do you know that woman that was in here about an hour ago?”

“A woman.” The redhead glared at me. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

My lips thinned. “Her name is Ivy?”

The barista looked over my shoulder at the line forming behind me.

“Perhaps she’s been in here before?” I drummed my fingers on the counter. “Dark hair, hoodie, she was talking to another guy, and they had a bit of a confrontation that?—”

“Sir, are you going to order anything?” The girl popped a fucking bubble with her gum.

A bubble.

My fingers stopped drumming, coiling into a ball.

“I’ll order in a minute. Just answer me—do you know her?”

She chose to chomp on her gum this time, her eyes rolling.

Here I thought, my training covered all forms of resistance, but clearly, I’d underestimated the power of teenage apathy; I was not telling Daniel that my biggest lead was thwarted by the impenetrable defense of bubble gum and disdain.

“It’s just that she dropped something,” I lied. “And I want to get it back to her.”

She extended her hand, but when I stared at it, she managed to look even more annoyed. Which was saying something.

“I’ll add it to the lost and found,” she said. Rudely, of course.

“I’d like to get it to her myself,” I countered. “Her last name. Do you know it?”

“If you’re not going to order anything, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.” She swooshed her pointy purple fingernails through the air.

God, I missed my normal job description that included things like bullets, bombs, and poison. Playing charades with the most annoying civilians in history tested my patience.

“Do any of your colleagues know her last name?” I scanned the other workers buzzing around so quickly, they appeared to be short-staffed.

“We don’t give out customer information,” she said.

I tilted my head. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Next?” she shouted over my shoulder.

You know, she was lucky she was a woman right now. My fist might’ve broken a guy’s teeth if he kept up his unnecessary assholeness. I was a professional and did my best to keep a low profile, but I was a lethal operative, filled with the rage and sin it took to carry that off.

“Hold on,” I said, raising a hand to stall the increasingly impatient line. “I’m not done.”

If the guy behind me realized how many ways I could end him without breaking a sweat, his glower would vanish quick.

“Is she a regular?” I asked.

No response.

“Manager. Now,” I demanded as a last-ditch effort.

Her smirk was a slap. “Afraid she’s at the bank. Buy something or leave. Your choice.”

Irritation ground through my veins. If she wanted to be this goddamned impossible, I could be, too.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have a nonfat, extra-hot latte—at 120 degrees precisely—with one and a half pumps of sugar-free caramel, one pump of vanilla, and a whisper of chocolate. Add a sprinkle of cinnamon. Oh, and I’d like my milk to be a blend of 2 percent and soy milk, frothed separately but poured together. Top it all off with a small dollop of whipped cream, a drizzle of caramel sauce, and a very thin zigzag of chocolate syrup.”

The girl’s chest rose so high, I wondered if she’d float away like a damn helium balloon.

“Do you need me to repeat that?” I raised my eyebrows.

I have to admit, I took pleasure in watching her fingers punch so many damn keys on her screen that at one point she even had to pause to address a chipped nail. After I paid for the drink I had no intention of consuming, I waited at the end of the counter, figuring it would look suspicious if I left without the drink. At least waiting gave me time to go over what I’d have to say to Daniel.

I wasn’t used to delivering bad news to him.

I scrubbed my face, wishing this day would end, missing how simple my life had been before—get an assignment, murder some asshole, rinse, repeat.

“Prince Charming?” a barista called out, smirking at the name I’d given. Shame she had to make it rather than the redhead who’d taken my order.

When I snagged my drink, I asked this new girl about Ivy, but she didn’t know either.

Damn. I’d lost my only lead in finding this woman. Maybe Daniel could at least try to get her name from the police—maybe the cops wouldn’t stonewall him?—

“She comes here every day.” A loud, baritone voice interrupted my thoughts.

I blinked and looked around until I found the source—a guy in his mid-fifties with a long beard, sitting alone in front of his laptop screen. Close enough to the counter that he must have overheard my conversation with the barista.

“The woman. Ivy,” he said. “She’s a regular.”

I stepped closer to him, trying to conceal my eagerness behind a veil of mild curiosity. “Do you know her?”

“No. I’m a regular. See her in here almost every day, too.”

“And the lovely barista”—I nodded toward the crimson-haired disaster piece—“she knows this?”

He smirked. “Can’t tell you how satisfying it was to see someone put her in her place.”

“So, she’s always a ray of sunshine?”

His lips twitched higher. “Used to think she was having a bad day, but that ain’t true. Unless she has three hundred and sixty-five of them each year.”

I smirked—to play the part of a non-assassin asking non-killer-type questions.

“Do you know Ivy’s last name?” I asked.

“No,” the guy said. “Just know her name is Ivy. And it was kind of you—to stick up for her when that asshole manhandled her.”

I nodded. “Well, thank you. Maybe I’ll stop in here tomorrow if I have time.”

I’ll make time, of course.

“Today wasn’t her normal time slot,” he warned. “She’s usually here in the mornings.”

Based on the papers all over this table, this guy used this coffee shop as his office. Probably an annoyance to other customers. Hopefully an annoyance to the redhead.

“Well, thank you again,” I said.

As I walked away, I silently catalogued what I knew.

Ivy. A regular at a coffee shop.

I was getting somewhere. Tomorrow, I’d come back and get her full name. Even if it meant stealing her wallet to get it.

“Oh, and, sir?” the guy called out to me.

I turned.

“Be warned.” He raised an eyebrow. “That meathead? He’s a regular, too. And he comes in at the same time she does.”

My lips curled up on one side. Well, this will be interesting.