Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

30. GRAYSON

30

GRAYSON

“Just take what you want and go.” Her words spilled out in a shaky tumble.

“Ivy?” I repeated, out loud this time.

The sound of my voice made her still. We stood frozen in the shadows, blades pressed to each other’s throats, while our vision attempted to sift through the darkness and cast a light on what in God’s name was going on here.

“Grayson?” she gasped with shock in her tone.

In my stunned silence, she yanked off my mask and used her unarmed hand to flip a switch, illuminating the small foyer and, more importantly, our faces.

When her gaze met mine, her eyes widened with recognition and betrayal. She took four long, shuddering breaths as her throat bobbed, trying to process the situation.

As was I…

“What the fuck?” she stuttered. “What…what’s going on?”

My mind raced, trying to reassemble the puzzle pieces of everything I thought I knew as they flew through the air in absolute chaos. The CIA had a termination order out for the woman in this house—a woman by the name of Samantha Jackson.

“The coffee shop…” Her eyes darted around like a compass trying to dial in due north. “Was that the first time we actually met?”

“You said your name was Ivy.” I scrutinized her.

If that guy at the medical facility had gotten back to me by now with the grandmother’s last name, maybe I would have questioned her first.

“Or were you stalking me this whole time?” Her face was a mosaic of emotions—the starting lineup of which were fear and confusion. “Who the hell are you, really?”

“But it’s Samantha,” I snarled, not answering her semi-accurate claim.

I had been stalking her at first—when I saw her flee from that parking garage with Vosch, when I’d presumed her appearance had been a calculated countermove to stop the operation.

Yet in the time I’d spent with her, I’d gone from presuming she was guilty to firmly believing she was an innocent civilian. I’d even started to have damn feelings for her, if I were being honest. Had my feelings clouded my logic?

Speaking of feelings, her thickened breathing and tightened jaw told me she’d let another emotion into the lineup—anger. I had to give her credit; I’d argue most people wouldn’t narrow their eyes at a man who held a knife to their jugular. Maybe the blade she continued to hold against my neck was giving her too much damn confidence.

“You’re some psycho who’s been toying with me, just waiting for the right moment to attack!” she accused.

Had that whole sob story she’d told me been an act? Was she, in fact, a cunning operative? She had to be. She’d lied about her name and about the real reasons she was at that parking garage.

I mean, look at her. If you wanted to create the perfect woman to disarm me, she was it.

Her angelic face with those big, captivating hazel eyes and dark hair that somehow looked even more alluring in its disheveled state. And then there was her body, the kind that belonged in the fantasies of men. With nothing but a T-shirt on, her bare legs seemed to go on forever, their lean lines an invitation to trace their length.

“You put on quite the act, didn’t you?” I retorted, trying to keep my focus on the situation at hand.

Look at her eyelashes bat in feigned fear, hurt even, as I pressed my blade hard enough to prick her seemingly delicate skin. But there was nothing delicate about her.

Why was I even hesitating? If the CIA sent me here, they knew Ivy to be a national security threat. One so dangerous, the only way to save lives was to kill her.

Maybe I hadn’t stopped her heart yet because of the shock, but mostly, I think it was because other puzzle pieces—Vosch’s man attacking her, her behavior after, her grandmother’s situation—wedged themselves into the logic that she was a criminal mastermind.

Then again, a criminal mastermind would know how to play me for a fool. My damn ribs tightened at the betrayal.

Her eyes widened with a sudden realization. “Oh God…it was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who set me up at the garage.”

It was like she wasn’t even listening. Not that I’d expect anything less from a violent criminal mastermind.

“I actually believed you.” Un-fucking real. How insulting, to be played like this.

Her trembling lip was probably fake as hell. No one who was truly scared would have the balls to dig the tip of her blade deep enough to sting, a drop of blood dripping down my neck.

“You’re Bob! The man online.” Her voice broke.

The muscles in my neck tightened as I struggled to maintain my composure.

“Are you seriously going to keep up with this charade, Samantha ?”

“You orchestrated all of this, didn’t you? The garage, the coffee shop…everything?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You…you tricked me into going to that garage!”

What a pro, shuddering like a scared, helpless civilian. Just like she’d done with her alleged ex-boyfriend. It must’ve all been a stunt to make me believe the whole charade was my idea to sit with her in the coffee shop.

“And now, you duped me again,” she added in a wounded tone.

With tears breaking over her cheeks, she was doing a superior job, looking heartbroken to sell her cover story. But she was one of Vosch’s. Had to be.

Yet even as the realization solidified in my mind, my instincts rebelled against it. This close, I could see the genuine hurt and confusion in her features. She was good—too good. Either the best actress in the world or…

No. I couldn’t let myself go down that road. Letting my guard down again would be a fatal mistake. Whatever else she was, whatever we’d had together, was a lie.

The question was…why? Why had she played me?

“What was your plan, Samantha?”

“How could you?” Her breath hitched as a sob escaped her throat for good measure. “How did you know about my father?”

“Did you think you would get intel out of me?” I demanded.

“Why did you tell me all those things about my dad?” she asked through a ragged breath, her face contorting in anguish. “Why did you try to kill me?”

“You severely underestimated me, sweetheart.”

“And why are you trying again ?”

Look at her eyes, shimmering with fresh tears, congestion clogging her sinuses with supposed pain. It’s fake, Grayson. Don’t let her pull at your heartstrings. Don’t let her play you again.

I hated that my gut clenched at the sights and sounds of her hurt, but in my defense, I was used to the kind of evil that fires with weapons, not words and mannerisms.

“Stop with the act,” I growled, my grip tightening on the blade. “We both know what you are, so just tell me the truth.”

I needed to hear it, to give me the push I needed to drag this blade across her neck. To make me understand what would haunt me forever.

“What are you talking about?” she pleaded.

“You saw me, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“In the parking garage.”

Her eyes narrowed so tightly, I thought they’d cut her face.

Well, well, if it isn’t her old friend, Anger, crashing the party once again.

The rapid-fire emotions flashing across her features reminded me of a deck of cards being shuffled by an overzealous dealer. For a seasoned con woman, she sure hadn’t mastered the art of keeping her outward feelings consistent.

“You were there!” She ground her teeth so hard, I wondered if they’d crack. “Which means you are Bob!” Her furious leer scanned me up and down. “And since you failed the first time, here you are. Back for round two.”

Damn, she was good. Any other day, any other situation, I’d buy her act—hook, line, and sinker. Worst case, she’d known I’d be in that parking garage before the assassination attempt. Best case, she’d merely spotted me and implemented a plan after.

If that were true, why risk exposing herself by giving me access to her grandmother’s medical facility? It was a dangerous gamble, especially if she knew I was CIA. She’d be handing us leverage on a silver platter.

How did she know we wouldn’t use her grandmother against her? Kill her, even?

Was the old woman even her grandmother? Was that whole thing staged? All part of her cover?

But the staff at the facility knew Ivy. The billing office confirmed an outstanding balance for the elderly patient. If all of it was a ruse, her plan had been meticulously crafted down to the finest detail. Especially once you factored in the ex-boyfriend, the locals at that coffee shop that knew her name.

And why did she spend so much time trying to gain my trust? Why show up at the coffee shop that next day? Surely, she didn’t think she would get any intelligence out of me; I was an executioner, not an intelligence officer.

Something wasn’t adding up, and the thought of killing her before I understood what was going on tore me to shreds. Even worse was the nagging desire to believe in her innocence. What did that say about me? I had a sworn duty, yet here I was, caught between loyalty and doubt, forced to choose a side without all the facts.

This internal conflict both infuriated and unsettled me. In one swift motion, I knocked the blade from her hand and slammed her harder against the wall, my hand at her throat. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath my fingers, a tangible reminder of the life I held in my grasp and the gravity of the decision before me.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I decided, my tone low and dangerous as I squeezed her neck a little. In case she needed to be reminded what was at stake. “You’re going to give me some answers.”

With a deep breath and jutted chin, a fresh wall of anger rose around her like a fortress.

“Screw you,” she spat, her face defiant.

My fingers bit into the soft flesh of her neck as I yanked her into the living room, shoving her onto the sofa with a thump. Her fear returned to her expression for a moment—a normal emotion for an innocent person.

Time for some Q and A, sweetheart.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, looming over her.

“You’re a psycho—you know that, right?” Her voice trembled as she rubbed her throat, scanning my face, as if searching for a shred of humanity.

I thought I’d been the one pursuing her after she left the garage, but it had all been an act, hadn’t it? She had to have known I was following her, and once I was at the coffee shop, she set her trap and waited to see if the CIA took the bait. Looking back, it hadn’t been that difficult to get her to sit down with me the next day, had it? Why?

“What was your goal in talking to me at the coffee shop?”

She blinked, confusing dancing across her features. “My goal ?”

“Answer the fucking question.”

Her jaw clenched, but I could hear her tone wavering. “I didn’t have a goal. You seemed like a nice guy to talk to,” she spat, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Obviously a total misjudgment of character.”

I gritted my teeth.

“That whole ex-boyfriend thing was a ruse,” I accused. “To get me to stay and talk. What did you think you were going to get out of me?” I paced, twisting the handle of the knife in my hand.

“Get out of you? What does that even mean?” She looked at the blade lying on the floor.

Go ahead, I silently told her. I dare you.

“Did you think I would leak intelligence? Did you think if you seduced me in bed, I might let a secret slip?”

Ivy stared at me with her mouth open.

“ Seduce you?” she echoed. “What secret do you think I was trying to pry out of you? That you’re evidently a serial killer? That cat’s out of the bag.”

“You’re testing my patience, Samantha ,” I warned. “Stop with the act.”

“What act? In case you’re forgetting, you’re the one who initiated a conversation with me at the café. Not the other way around. You’re the one who pretended to be a nice guy, trying to be all knight in shining armor when, in reality, you’re a psychotic, stabby stalker! And by the way, why bother stalking me if you were just going to kill me again?”

“Stop lying and answer my fucking questions!” I pointed the blade in her direction, noting how hard it appeared for her to swallow.

In a ragged breath, she said, “I’m not lying. I have proof that someone lured me to that garage on my phone.” She nodded her chin toward her bedroom, and when she made her next accusation, her voice rose slowly in volume and determination. “You’re the one that’s the liar. The whole time we were having coffee together, you never told me you were in that garage, Bob, ” she accused.

“I was in the garage, but I wasn’t the one who lured you there.”

“So, you’re what, his hired hand?”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“Says the man who just had a knife to my throat,” she balked. “In case you forgot, you just admitted to being there.”

“For official purposes.”

“Official.” She leered at me. “Doesn’t get more official than trying to kill me.”

“That’s what happens when you get in bed with violent arms dealers.”

“Arms dealers?” Her head snapped back like it had been hit by a rubber band. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

I stilled, twirling the handle of my blade. Just do it, Grayson. Get it over with.

Her eyebrows attacked her forehead. “You think I associate with arms dealers?”

“The CIA wouldn’t have sent me to kill you if you didn’t.”

“The CIA?”

Ivy’s mouth hung open, suspended in supposed disbelief as she stared at me like I was talking a different language. After a few seconds, she looked down, seemingly lost in thought before lifting her face again.

“You’re mentally unstable,” she whispered to herself. “I must have treated you in the emergency room one time or something. Maybe you were put on a psych hold. You must have…started stalking me, hacked into my phone or something.” She glanced up again and met my gaze. “You need professional help, Grayson. If that’s even your real name.”

I clenched my jaw; I’d had enough of this.

I brought the blade to her throat again, getting her attention as I growled, “I assure you, sweetheart, I’m not mentally unstable. If I was, you would be dead by now.”

Ivy’s eyes grew wide as she swallowed.

“I can get you help,” Ivy said. “I know a good psychiatrist at the hos?—”

“Ivy, stop trying to play with me,” I interrupted with restrained anger. “If I were crazy, would I be able to articulate my thoughts clearly, engage in meaningful conversation, demonstrate awareness of my situation, and respond appropriately to questions or situations?”

“I…”

“Or does that seem more like someone with rational thinking?”

She searched my face again, looking for hope that I was insane, I think. Because insane, she knew what to do with.

An assassin? She did not.

“You expect me to believe you work for the CIA? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?” she stuttered.

“Crazier than a bomb taking out that parking garage you were in?” I pushed.

I could see the change in her face, morphing with a shocking realization that I wasn’t just some random stalker/killer. The bomb changed everything, told her something bigger was, in fact, at play.

“Who do you work for?” I growled.

Ivy looked unsure what to believe in this moment, but while she tried to figure it out, she opted to not keep the man with a blade to her jugular waiting.

“The hospital,” she managed. “I’m a nurse.”

“The arms dealer,” I demanded. I was 90% sure it was Vosch, but maybe it was one of his enemies.

“I. Am. Not. An arms dealer. And I don’t associate with them.” Each word was punctuated with anger and frustration.

“The CIA disagrees.”

“I am NOT a criminal! I’m a nurse, for God’s sake. But clearly, nothing I say will convince you otherwise.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t have lied about your name.”

“Ivy is my middle name. I’ve gone by Ivy since I was little. If you were really the CIA, you would know that, as it’s public information available on my birth certificate.”

She had to be lying. The CIA didn’t target people without rock-solid proof they were violent criminals. The right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, would be to kill her before she could slaughter innocent civilians.

That was my duty, the sacred vow I’d taken when I joined the CIA. It was the foundation upon which I’d built my entire career.

But now, my head and my instincts were locked in a fierce battle, each vying for control over my actions. Duty demanded that I end her life right here and now. Instinct, however, whispered that she was telling the truth, no matter how little sense it made, no matter how inconceivable it seemed that the CIA could have made such a colossal mistake.

I found myself at a crossroads, forced to choose sides in a deadly game where one wrong move could lead to unimaginable suffering.

Questions remained: How could I unravel the truth? How could I prove or disprove her story? If she were a skilled operative, she’d likely have fake identification to cover her tracks, but would she actually have a string of texts, dated with time stamps, for a backstory she might never get audited on?

“We’re going to have a little walk to your bedroom, and you’re going to show me those texts between you and Bob.”

The blood drained from Ivy’s face. I couldn’t be sure if it was because she was about to get caught empty-handed or if she feared what a man with a knife might do in a room with a bed…

I gripped her arm, my fingers encircling her soft skin as I pressed the cold blade to her neck. Guiding her into the bedroom, I walked behind her with her back pressed against my chest, the heat of her body seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt. The curve of her spine against me stirred memories I fought to suppress—of her face in my hand, her lips pressed to mine.

Her breath quickened, each exhale a warm whisper. The vanilla scent of her shampoo filled my nostrils, a stark contrast to the tension crackling between us. For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to just this—her body against mine, the sound of our synced breathing the only thing bridging the chasm of distrust.

“Flip the light on,” I demanded, my voice hoarse with an emotion I refused to name.

She complied.

There, on the nightstand, was her phone.

I brought her close, but before she picked it up, I warned her, “You do anything stupid, like try to call 911, you will bleed out before anyone has a chance to save you.”

Ivy’s shoulders tensed, and she licked her lips before nodding.

She picked up the phone, activated the facial recognition, and opened up her messages.

More specifically, a string of messages between her and the sender identified as Bob. She scrolled through them slowly, allowing me to read them in reverse order.

This woman was either a dangerously skilled operative or she was telling the truth and was innocent. These texts lined up with the other evidence supporting her claim of innocence.

So, how could I explain the CIA giving me her name and address for the hit? Or the elimination order itself?

I couldn’t actually kill her when I suspected she might be innocent, could I? Not before completing some due diligence? But I couldn’t leave her alive either. Not after getting direct orders. I’d hesitated once with Vosch, and look where that got me. If I didn’t eliminate her…and she turned out to be guilty, got away even…

I couldn’t live with myself if she killed innocent people.

But I couldn’t live with myself if I killed an innocent woman either.

Especially Ivy.

“Fucking hell.”

Lowering my knife, I pulled out a pair of flex cuffs I often had with me in case of a surprise guest.

Ironic, I know.

“Hands behind your back.”

When she hesitated, looking past me to safety, I sensed her intention a split second before she bolted forward, but I was ready this time.

In one swift motion, I grabbed her and twisted her arms behind her back, my fingers wrapping around her delicate wrists. As I bound them together, she struggled against the unyielding strength of my grip.

Pressing my chest firmly against her back again, I leaned in close, my lips nearly grazing the shell of her ear. The heat of our bodies mingled, and I felt a shiver run through her, though whether it was from fear or something else entirely, I couldn’t be sure.

“Don’t move,” I whispered, my breath hot against her skin. “Or I’ll have to restrain more than just your hands.”

The irony of our proximity, the way her bare legs brushed against mine, was not lost on me. It was a cruel twist of fate, a fleeting moment of intimacy in a situation that was anything but tender.

As I held her there, her body taut against mine, a myriad of thoughts raced through my mind. The doubts, the questions, the uncertainties—they all swirled together in a dizzying mix of confusion, but amidst the chaos, one thing was certain: I had to get to the bottom of this, no matter the cost.

And to do that, I needed to talk to my handler.

Which meant I needed help keeping Ivy restrained…