Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

41. IVY

41

IVY

I didn’t fight him when he ushered me down an elevator, holding my hand as he put me inside a vehicle, its door parked so close to a cement wall that there was no way I could open it and try to escape. I didn’t try to jump out of the moving car as he drove until the towering skyscrapers of the city faded to nothing and the stretch of undeveloped property expanded before us.

But only because I was trying to be smart here, searching for an optimal time to make a move, because the more I thought about that “truce,” the less comfortable I felt with it. I mean, if I were some psycho, I’d prefer my hostage to not fight back, and to do that, I’d try to convince her that I was on her side.

Grayson isn’t on my side. He might be the Grim Reaper himself, and so help me, I’ll find a way to run.

But when we arrived at a remote cabin, defeat settled its way into my blood.

How will I ever escape this place?

Surrounded by towering trees, the one-story log cabin—and I mean, literal logs—sported a wraparound wooden porch, a stone chimney, and an assortment of natural plants that softened the facade. The thing looked like a postcard from a guy who would say, Gone fishing. Luxury edition.

The scent of pine and earthy dirt wafted through the chilly October air, and the wind rustled through the orange, yellow, and red leaves, creating a symphony of nature that would have been beautiful under different circumstances.

But as I stood there, taking in the remote location and the absolute lack of any signs of civilization, all I could think was, Great, I’m stuck in this picture-perfect prison with no hope of getting out.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Somewhere safe.”

“My boss might’ve swallowed the story of me being sick today, but he probably won’t tomorrow,” I warned. “He knows I never miss work.”

“One step at a time.”

Grayson stocked the refrigerator and cabinet with the items he had taken from his penthouse while I sat in the living room, debating my options.

Plan A: Somehow retrieve the keys from his pocket and speed off in his car.

Plan B: Run through the woods. I mean sure, the temperature was dropping, particularly in the October nights, but surely, I would come across a road sooner rather than later with a car on it.

Plan C: Distract Grayson long enough to steal his cell phone or fish mine out of his bag and then somehow call 911.

“I’m going to make you food, and you’re going to eat it.” Grayson’s voice popped my fantasy bubble as he appeared before me, unaware his muscles were magnetic forces against my eyeballs.

“Sounds great.” I even smiled, being the good little hostage that I was.

Grayson tilted his head slightly. “What are you plotting?”

“I’m not plotting anything.”

“You’re being too agreeable. And you bite your lip when you’re lost in thought, so I’ll ask again. What are you plotting?”

Damn him all to hell.

“You won’t escape this cabin, Ivy. You need to accept that you’re here and allow me to protect you.”

Protect me.

“And then what?” I challenged with the defiant squaring of my shoulders. “When this mysterious boss hands you a file on me, what then?”

“According to you, it will be clean.”

“If it were clean, they wouldn’t put a hit on my life.”

“A mistake, you have assured me.”

“Guilty until proven innocent, eh?” I couldn’t hide the bite in my tone as I repeated a question he’d conveniently avoided earlier. “Let me ask you this: will you kill me if he tells you that you have to?”

The silence that stretched on between us haunted me.

“Are you hiding something?” Grayson pressed. “Something you haven’t told me?”

“Like what? I forgot to mention that I’m actually a psychopathic criminal? No.”

He pursed his lips. “Over dinner, I’m going to ask you more questions. You’re going to answer them.”

“We already did this dance.”

“And yet we barely scratched the surface.”

“Pass. Wait for your murder file; I’m sure it’ll have everything you’re looking for in there.”

His eyes half sparkled in amusement, half narrowed in annoyance. “Have you always been the stubborn?”

“Have you always been a homicidal maniac?”

“You know nothing about me.”

When Grayson’s jaw tensed, a smarter girl would’ve bitten her tongue.

Turns out, I wasn’t very smart.

“You kill people for a living,” I said. “I’d say I know the most important thing about you.”

Grayson moved with the fluidity of a lion until his face hovered mere inches from my own, his palm now pressed against the wall behind me—caging me in like a trapped animal.

“You know this hostility act is getting really old,” he murmured.

I seriously didn’t appreciate his attempted intimidation tactics. He already had the upper hand, holding me hostage and dragging me out here, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

“So is being a hostage. What do you say you release me and we call it a day?”

Grayson looked at my left eye, then my right.

Maybe deciding which one he’d pierce with an ice pick first.

“Do you think this sarcasm and hostility are getting you anywhere?” Grayson pressed. “Making your life easier?”

Well, when he put it that way…

“No,” I admitted.

Grayson hesitated, then stepped back.

“Good. Now that you finally realized that, we can have an honest conversation over lunch.”

I shifted.

“Learning about my life isn’t going to help us figure this out,” I said.

Us . Did I just use that term? There was no us .

“Sitting in silence will certainly not help,” Grayson countered.

“The only thing that’ll help is finding whoever this Bob guy is. He must be the key to this.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Grayson rubbed his eyebrow bone. “My brother knows one of the best private investigators in this country. Wonder if he could pull some strings and have him help us.”

I stood up straighter.

When a girl finds herself the target of two separate homicide attempts, she can’t help but feel a flutter of hope at the prospect of finding out why.

“You think he would?”

“Worth a shot.” Grayson shrugged. “I’ll make a call, but first, food and answers.”

See? Strings attached everywhere.

When Grayson disappeared into the kitchen, I wondered if it was a test. Was he waiting to see if I would make a dash for the front door? Surely, he knew I was in here, calculating the odds of getting away.

We had been on that dirt road for at least five minutes without seeing a vehicle. On the road before that, at least fifteen minutes. Also sans vehicles.

Let’s say I ran, and it only took me four times that amount to reach the third road, what were the chances that Grayson wouldn’t have caught up to me by then? Or left me in the woods to be eaten by wolves?

And what was my plan? Go to the cops and explain that some CIA agent had tried to kill me? Which happened shortly after another guy tried to kill me, and a bomb had exploded, and I was being accused of being a national security threat, and the CIA had a hit out on me?

Welcome to a psychiatric hold.

If I was in some psychiatric facility against my will, then what?

Someone clearly wanted me dead. While the whole thing seemed incredibly far-fetched and hard to believe, there was one fact I didn’t debate: my life was in danger.

Going it alone seemed like the riskier option. Yes, I had the fighting skills, but that didn’t help me if someone planted another bomb or put my skull in the crosshairs of a long-range sniper rifle.

My best chance of surviving this was getting answers. My best chance of getting answers was with Grayson.

I shook my head in disbelief that, after careful consideration, I came to the most ridiculous conclusion.

My best chance of surviving was in the protective arms of my assassin.