Page 3 of Crossfire
First, I changed into black pants and a black shirt, to make it easier to hide in the shadows, and paired my outfit with a black nylon mask. The last thing we needed was to accidentally give Vosch any CIA intel, like the face of an operative. Finally, I disposed of the fake drugs in a corner and moved on to search the space.
I slowly cleared all other levels of the parking structure to ensure no civilians, criminals, or other weapons were hiding and finally moved my way to the basement, praying the CIA intel was right—that Vosch would appear on this level.
Intel said he’d be pulling in from the south entrance, so I carefully shrugged off my backpack near the center column, gently—holy shit, do I mean gently—set it on the ground, and ignored my pounding heart as I pulled out the explosive. The person who created it was an artist. The bomb looked like a brick, meticulously painted to appear like aged and cracked concrete, so it blended in with the parking structure as I rested it behind the column.
When the high-pitched beep confirmed it was armed, I ignored the temptation to run from the structure—the same thoughts that I’d spoken to Daniel about. Maybe I could set a bomb. Wait outside for it to explode. Surely, that would take him down. We’d done it before on other missions.
But Daniel got his orders from above. We’d learned the hard way that bombs weren’t foolproof, that targets could run away from them and miraculously survive, thanks to an unintentionalobstruction, or the bomb itself could fail. Plan A was to shoot Vosch in the brain. The bomb was plan B.
As I hoisted the backpack over my shoulder and jogged toward a concrete column that would offer me both concealment in the dark shadows and a direct line of sight of where the SUV would theoretically stop, soft thumps of tires rolled over a speed bump. Followed by the increasingly loud growl of an engine, signaling the imminent arrival of my target.
Squatting behind the concrete barricade, I pulled my own Heckler & Koch HK416 with its shortened barrel from the backpack. Fitted with a suppressor, this rifle was compact enough for the close quarters of a parking structure, yet powerful enough for a precise shot—aided with the Nightforce vision scope to help visibility in the low-light space.
I held the weapon with both hands and resisted the urge to peer out from behind my column and watch the approach. This was oftentimes the riskiest part of a mission when the target would be most on alert.
The rhythmic thumping of tires over concrete seams became more pronounced, and the vehicle’s engine, a low and steady purr, echoed in the chilly, hollow space. Increasing in volume until, finally, the clunk of a gearshift was followed by a car door opening and shutting.
Footsteps drew away from the still-running engine, and I pressed my back flatter against the cold stone behind me, controlling my breaths to be as quiet as possible. The steps stopped, then continued to my left. Still far away, before pausing again and gaining in volume.
Halting a mere ten feet behind me.
My heart decided now was a good time to perform gymnastics in my goddamn chest, thumping in my ears so loudly I worried someone else could hear the damn thing.
To my relief, the footfalls grew softer, presumably clearing the space on the other side of the basement structure before returning to the vehicle, where the clink of the door opened, then shut with a crunch.
I turned and poked my left eye around the concrete shield.
Thirty feet away, a black SUV sat parked with two figures inside. One in the passenger and one in the driver’s seat, but the limited lighting made it impossible to identify who was who. Or if Vosch was even one of them…
“We have a problem,” Seth whispered in the piece in my ear. “Someone’s approaching the parking garage.”
Shit. The CIA had assured Daniel that the other criminals who’d intended to meet Vosch (buyers of weapons) had been intercepted. Had they failed and didn’t tell us?
Blending into the shadows, I drew my body further from its shield and aimed my gun at the windshield. The problem was, as soon as I pulled the trigger, my presence and location would be revealed, so I might only have one chance to fire a bullet before they’d duck. Or, more likely, fire back. I needed to make sure the bullet went into the right skull.
“Female, on foot,” Seth’s voice continued. “No visible weapon.”
She wasn’t in a vehicle? Vosch’s associates always traveled in vehicles for meetings because they provided the fastest escapes if things went south. But the woman had to be with him. There was no way an innocent civilian could become the world’s most extreme example of wrong place, wrong time. Right?
Who the hell was she?
More importantly, how severely would her unexpected presence derail this assassination?
2
IVY
After checking the red pin on my map for the third time to confirm I was in the right location, my focus drilled into the dark space of the four-story parking garage before me.
Seriously? “Secluded,” my ass.
This place—a concrete monster with colorful graffiti and shadows pooling in every corner—looked like a scene from one of those horror movies, where a pig rides out on a tricycle. And while you’re so wigged out, thinking,What is that creepy pig doing on such a suboptimal transportation vehicle, and how do his little hoofs push those pedals?, someone drives a screwdriver into your frontal lobe and you become instantly lobotomized. I liked my frontal lobe—it was my favorite lobe of the brain. What a shame it would be to have a screwdriver sticking out of it.
Or…or it could be a one-way entrance to some sort of sex dungeon.
What this place did NOT look like was a legitimate meeting location to retrieve what I needed so desperately that I had shown up to meet a man I’d met online.
As a huge fan of murder mystery podcasts, I had taken a lot of convincing before trusting someone enough to meet them for the first time, let alone at a secluded location. Bob managed toconvince me to do both, but I could already see the yellow crime tape in my mind’s eye.