Page 2 of Crossfire
A fourth major tactical operation to take him out was too risky, the CIA determined, especially since this guy lurked in heavily populated areas.
Thus, here I was. A lone operative, tasked with taking down the most dangerous criminal we’d seen in decades.
Well, lone wasn’t exactly accurate, I guess. I had Seth hiding across the street, and there were a handful of vehicles positioned in nearby locations—but they were too far away to serve as a functional perimeter.
Glass half full, a single skilled operative—without a team of people risking detection—could get closer to Vosch than anyone else had, thus giving us the highest chance of success. Glass half empty, it was a suicide mission, with no cavalry here to save me if things went to hell.
And the chances of things going to hell were damn high.
My handler, Daniel, knew that as well as I did.
Echoes of our conversation planning this mission boomeranged through my mind.
“We need fail-safes this time.” Daniel’s voice was low, pulsing with something I couldn’t detect. Was that nervousness?
While his silver hair always had a rugged, surfer-like appearance, today, it looked even more unkempt than usual, as if he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and his gray eyes were firmer than usual, too, resembling granite. To the untrained eye, the lines that were etched across his skin might suggest the life of a seasoned hiker battling the elements rather than someone who’d witnessed the worst of humanity. Those lines appeared to deepen right before me.
“Such as?” I leaned back and folded my hands on my lap.
“An explosive. Something in case he tries to flee.” Daniel’s words hung heavy in the air, the silence stretching as the implication crystalized between us.
My stomach dropped. Risk was always part of the job, but this—this was new.
“It’s a fail-safe,” he amended. “A last resort, should he survive again.”
“And if he takes me out? How will the bomb help, then?”
“We’ll have a remote detonator as a backup.”
Of course they would, but that begged another question: How would they know when to use it and, more importantly, when not to? It wasn’t exactly a given I’d be able to communicate through an earpiece; I could be in a chokehold or something, fully capable of living, provided they didn’t blow me to bits.
That’s where this mission deviated from my others. This one wasn’t set up to keep operatives reasonably safe; it was set up to kill Vosch, no matter the cost.
Translation: Chances were, I would soon be in a body bag of my own.
This was the risk I’d accepted when I joined this team, though, and my death was a sacrifice I would gladly make to spare innocent civilians from becoming this guy’s casualties.
I just hated that it’d likely destroy my brothers, who’d suffered more heartbreak than anyone should endure. It was why I’d said goodbye to Hunter before I came on this mission. Normally, I didn’t warn him or my other brothers before I’d go on my assignments—secrecy was a protected asset in the United States CIA, and saying nothing had become my mantra since I’d joined. But after what he’d just gone through with his girlfriend, Luna, I didn’t want him or my other brothers wasting time or emotions hunting for me if I never returned. Without explicitly saying it, he knew I was going on the most dangerous operation of my life. And if anyone would understand why I was willing to do this, it was him.
He, too, had been affected by our father’s murder, making it his life’s mission to lock up bad guys. All while shrouding himself in secrecy. We just…chose different paths to the sameend. While Hunter protected the people of Chicago, my scope was more far-reaching, protecting the entire country.
In any case, no matter how doomed this mission might be, I’d do everything in my power to make it out of this alive—for my brothers’ sake.
Each step toward the garage felt heavier than the last, a stark reminder of the lives I’d ended and the soul I’d bartered away in service of a greater good. With every life I’d taken, a piece of my humanity flickered and faded, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before something would extinguish what little light remained.
Approaching the entrance, I glanced around the empty roads, checking one last time that no pedestrians were in the danger zone.
The space was empty, and yet an unexplained chill crawled up my back.
“See anyone?” I asked.
“No,” Seth answered in my earpiece. A fellow CIA operative, he was positioned on the roof of the next building, armed with Zeiss Victory HT 10x42 binoculars for high-definition surveillance and a suppressed Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle, known for its precision and reliability.
His presence gave me little comfort, though, since his orders were to stay far out of eyeshot. If anyone on Vosch’s team saw anything out of order, they’d abandon the meeting intended to finalize the details of a massive weapons purchase, and we would lose our opportunity.
This was why I’d taken such important countermeasures. I varied my route to avoid pattern recognition, checked for tails in reflections of windows, had a cover story prepared should I encounter any “civilian”—aka a possible Vosch associate checking me out—avoided all surveillance cameras in case they had hacked into them, and even carried fake narcotics in thesame oversized backpack that held the explosive, so I could pose as a drug dealer should anyone stop me just outside the parking garage. I also dressed in normal Chicago pedestrian attire—jeans and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt—to appear like a regular guy.
Entering the parking garage after one last all clear from Seth, I got to work.