Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

29. GRAYSON

29

GRAYSON

The woman inside this first-floor townhouse was about to die.

Dressed in my camouflage attire—a nylon mesh covering my head, a long-sleeved black shirt, black pants, black combat boots, and leather gloves—I’d taken precautions in case anyone on this block had surveillance cameras I hadn’t picked up on during my reconnaissance. Ring doorbells and video cameras were everywhere these days; a covert agent could never be too careful.

At 2:30 in the morning, the place was almost desolate. Only a lone car would rumble down this side street every couple of minutes, and only three townhouses still had interior lights on.

But not this one.

A solitary exterior bulb cast a dim pool of light over the three-step staircase ascending to the front door. The compact, uniform unit was one in a precise sequence of identical dwellings—a testament to suburban uniformity just outside the hustle of Chicago. The cool night air carried the lingering scent of a distant bonfire, hints of autumn and smoldering wood weaving into the silence—the tranquility a stark contrast to the constant noise of the city, only a short drive away.

In an assassination like this, I preferred more background noise, not less. Something to drown out potential screams.

I crept quietly around back, conducting one final visual scan of the secluded alley, and as I did, a black cat sauntered across the pavement—its luminous eyes locking on to mine, before walking off.

Making quick work out of my lockpick, I snuck inside—carefully, on alert for any possible complication—and quietly latched the door behind me.

The shadows of cabinets loomed around me, confirming I was in a kitchen—a cramped, narrow space flanked by two walls with barely a hallway’s width between the countertops. At least the refrigerator’s low hum provided a welcome cover for my movements.

With measured steps, I crept slowly across the linoleum floor, ensuring my boots remained silent, and thankfully, as I exited the kitchen, the soft embrace of carpet beneath my feet absorbed the sound of my footsteps even more. A small living room lay directly ahead, its shadowy figures hinting at a sofa and bookshelf, but my object was most certainly around the corner and down the hallway.

At the end of the passage, I paused in front of the ajar door, straining my ears for any hint of movement inside before stepping into the bedroom. The faint outlines of nightstands flanked a bed, upon which a figure lay motionless at its center.

My gut dropped. As selfish as it was, I’d been hoping that I’d find the place empty. Killing a woman…I still wasn’t sure I could go through with it.

The bile in my gut seemed to agree.

Her slow and steady breathing confirmed she was still asleep, oblivious to what was about to happen to her.

I flexed my fingers at my sides and slowly approached the front of her bed. I had killed many people in many different ways, but there was something particularly intimate about strangulation. Face-to-face, looking into the eyes of the person for four to five minutes, as you waited for their life to drain out of them.

Raising my gloved hands, I reached for her neck, my movements deliberate and precise. But as I leaned down, I hesitated, gritting my teeth as I dropped my hands to my sides, clenching them into fists.

Goddammit, Grayson, you have to do this.

The stakes were too high to fail. Daniel’s career hung in the balance, yes, but most importantly, if I didn’t succeed, innocent lives would be lost at the hands of this woman.

It had to be done—and done right. Clean, no complications.

I studied the dark outline of the woman’s sleeping form, trying to imagine her as a man, hoping it would make the task easier. When that failed, I conjured up an image of a room filled with innocent people pleading with me to save them.

Do it now. Before you lose your nerve. Just do it.

Once she was dead, I would stage the burglary. If everything went according to plan, I’d be out of here in less than seven minutes.

My heart slammed against my ribs as I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what had to be done. There was no turning back now.

At least the darkness of the room obscured her features, so I wouldn’t be able to see the fear in her eyes as the life drained from her body.

I grabbed her throat with both hands before she could even let out a scream. The woman jerked, instinctively grabbing my wrists and trying to pry them off her neck.

When that didn’t work, she tried to kick me, but I twisted my body, blocking her blows.

Her knees rammed into my sides, one after the other, each impact sending jolts of pain through my body. When that didn’t stop me, her nails clawed at my wrists, leaving burning trails on my skin. I gritted my teeth, my grip on her neck remaining resolute despite the searing agony.

I fucking hated this. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to stop, to let her go, but I couldn’t. The lives at stake forced me to continue, even as my stomach churned with disgust as she jerked her head back, tried rolling to her side, and tried kicking me again.

Suddenly, she stilled. It had only been fifteen to twenty seconds, so there was no way she’d lost consciousness yet. Right?

Before I could process what was happening, her hands flew up, and her thumbs pressed into the corners of my eyes.

I groaned, the pain exploding behind my vision as I tossed my head back, releasing her grip. But she grabbed my eyes again, her fingers digging into the sides of my mask, holding her hands securely in place as I thrashed my head back and forth, trying to shake her off. It felt like my eyeballs were being gouged out, the agony blinding me.

Twisting my body, I finally freed my head from her grasp, but the change in angle left me vulnerable. My target landed a massive blow with her knee to my ribs, the air rushing out of my lungs.

More importantly, the impact loosened my grip on her neck slightly.

Before I had a chance to recover, she punched me in my kidney, creating an explosion of pain so intense that I momentarily lost the rest of my grip on her neck.

That was all it took.

She jumped on my back and clamped her elbow around my throat, crushing my windpipe with terrifying precision. Desperate for air, I clawed at her forearm, my fingers sliding over skin that was unexpectedly soft despite its lethal intent. She’d locked her grip like a vise, one hand secured beneath her other arm.

For a split second, the contrast between her deadly skill and the unmistakably feminine curves of her body registered in my oxygen-starved brain.

Instinct took over. I surged backward, driving us both into the wall. The impact reverberated through her body and into mine, a sickening thud followed by a guttural groan that I felt more than heard. Her grip loosened just enough. I yanked her arms away from my throat, twisted around, and stumbled backward, gasping for the air I’d been deprived.

I’d have assumed she’d need to catch her breath, too, or recover from what had to be blinding pain, but nope. The woman surprised me. Again.

She bolted through the bedroom door, darted down the hallway, disappeared into the kitchen, and grasped the back door’s handle. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her backward so hard, she slammed to the ground, where I moved in front of her, blocking her escape.

In the blackness of the kitchen, we were like two shadows moving and stumbling in this dangerous dance, making it nearly impossible to anticipate this woman’s next moves.

Case in point, she sprang to her feet with surprising agility, her hands a blur as she yanked two knives from the block set on the counter—a large butcher knife gripped tightly in her right hand, a smaller steak knife in her left. She held them out in front of her, a silent challenge, a warning that she wasn’t going down without a fight.

I braced myself for the chase, expecting her to back away, to retreat to the safety of her bedroom, to lock the door and call for help. After all, even though she’d gotten in some good hits, she had to know she was outmatched here. I was a trained expert, a killer with years of experience.

But to my surprise, she did the exact opposite—advancing closer to me.

This woman has shifted from defense to offense.

I couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for her courage, even as I prepared myself for the battle to come. This was going to be one hell of a fight, and I had a feeling it was going to get a whole lot messier before it was over.

With lightning speed, I kicked blade number one from her grasp and prepared to extract blade number two—the smaller blade. The woman was fast, though, and when I reached for her arm, she tried to fucking stab me.

In the heart.

Luckily, I dodged it in time, but it violently forced me to step back to save my own ass.

I snatched the fallen butcher knife from the floor and readied myself for a knife fight, but the woman bolted for the front door this time.

Once again, I had to chase after her.

Which was officially irritating as shit. In fact, this assassination was grinding on my last nerve.

I hated chases. They were such a waste of time and energy, but luckily, the path to the front door was short. She hadn’t even unlocked the dead bolt before I grabbed her and pinned her up against the wall with my forearm to her chest, my butcher knife’s tip pressed against her neck.

At that exact same time—which immediately slowed—she returned the favor by bringing her blade to my neck. I prepared to drag it across her throat in an urgent race of life and death, but just before I did, a flash of headlights from a car passing by swept through the front room window.

And landed on her face.

What.

The.

Fuck?

I froze, the knife nearly slipping from my fingers. It couldn’t be. The room spun as my mind reeled, struggling to process the unfathomable truth before me.

Ivy?