Page 8 of Crossfire
71.
“Seth, what the hell is going on with the explosive?”
69.
68.
“We didn’t activate the timer.” Seth’s voice flared with alarm.
Every bomb we’d used in the past had the optional timer, but something outside our control had activated this one.
66.
“Vosch’s SUV must have hit it,” I said. Which could cause a component within the bomb to shift, triggering the timer inadvertently.
It could have been worse—it could have gone off immediately.
64.
“Can you shut it off?” I asked.
62.
“It’s not responding,” Seth said. “I’ll keep trying, but get the hell out of there!”
Off to my side, movement stole my attention.
Holy shit.
The woman wasn’t just alive; she didn’t even look that injured, based on how fast she was running toward the staircase.
If she worked for Vosch, I’d tuck the explosive under my arm like a football and chase her down, but I had no idea who she was, and I had sixty seconds to bolt before my body became a jigsaw puzzle.
I charged toward the staircase, but halfway there, I nearly stopped in my tracks.
The driver lay on the ground, his agonized groans piercing the air. His arms were bent at unnatural angles, and his right shin protruded through torn, bloodied fabric. Crimson streamed from his misshapen nose, coating his chin and neck in a slick, glistening layer, while swollen, darkening flesh engulfed his eyes, rendering them mere slits.
What in the actual hell?
At the risk of sounding like a misogynist, I couldn’t help the thought,Awomandid this?
I’d seen my fair share of beatdowns, but this was next level. The dude looked like he’d been put into a human blender.
The corner of my lips threatened to turn up, impressed by her handiwork, but my almost smile evaporated as I glanced at the staircase, where she’d conveniently, and suspiciously, vanished. The driver’s fate was sealed. I couldn’t save him at this point even if I wanted to—and let’s be clear; I had zero desire to—but this woman wasn’t going to lose me that easily.
If she thought she could waltz into a top-secret operation and get away scot-free, she had another think coming.
CIA operatives in nearby vehicles would have the best chance to follow Vosch, but I was on the ground, with the best shot at pursuing her—the woman who didn’t exactlyhelpmy operation.
With only seconds remaining before the bomb would detonate, I sprinted up the stairs with one mantra beating its rhythm through my head.
The hunt is on.
4
GRAYSON
I yanked my mask away with such force that it wrenched a strand of hair from my scalp with a sharp pinch, and just before I chased her outside, I had no choice but to leave my weapon and backpack in the garage. A man chasing a woman with a gun would draw too much attention, and it wasn’t like I could shoot the damn lady until I knew who she was. My heels slammed against the pavement—each step filled with the thunderous determination to ensure she didn’t slip through my grasp after my astonishing failure.