Page 22 of Crossover
“You’re CIA. Aren’t you supposed to be experts at getting that kind of intel?”
His jaw set tighter.
“You can’t go through normal channels without raising suspicion, can you?”
It was a small thing to take satisfaction in, but I did it anyway.
Until Daniel clicked something on his cell phone, put it to his ear, and said in a cold voice, “Let’s get started.”
My gut plummeted, a wave of nausea washing over me as footsteps echoed down the staircase. Slowly, a figure loomed in the darkness, clutching a duffel bag. He walked calmly, emerging into the basement, where the fluorescent light illuminated his face.
The guy looked like an ordinary businessman. Clean-cut hair, freshly shaven, sharp cheekbones, and a lean frame.
“How do you want to play this?” the man asked, setting the bag down with a thud.
“We need answers. Now,” Daniel replied.
The man nodded, unzipped it, and pulled out a blowtorch. I watched in mute horror, bile rising in my throat.
“Last chance,” the man said to me, almost gently. “It doesn’t have to go this way. Just tell him what he wants to know.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look away as he clicked the flame to life with a hiss. I’d treated burn victims before and knew the agony that awaited me.
“Please,” I heard myself whisper. “I didn’t tell anyone,” I lied. “I swear.”
Blowtorch dude sighed, like he actually pitied me for my answer.
11
GRAYSON
The rain assaulted my face as I sprinted toward the parking lot, my footsteps echoing off the pavement with a series of splat, splat, splats.An eerie stillness hung over the area, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder, like the whole damn city was nervous. I scanned the buildings yet again, searching for any signs of men, but evidently, the party was inside.
A small mercy, I guess, because if they spotted me first, Ivy might be as good as dead—when pushed between finishing an interrogation and ending their target, they’d likely choose the latter.
The woman pushed herself up, her movements clumsy and desperate.
I ran faster, my lungs burning.
As a gust of wind whipped her hair, she staggered toward the entrance like a newborn foal.
Now only thirty feet from the door. Twenty.
Her focus was so tunnel-visioned, her movements so desperate, she didn’t see me until the last second. Didn’t have a chance to scream before I slammed my hand over her mouth, dragging her backward, away from the door, away from danger.
She fought like a wildcat, twisting and bucking, but I had sixty pounds and years of training on her. Between the pouring rain and my grip, her muffled screams were lost. Hunter materialized at my side, and together, we hauled her around the side of the neighboring building, out of sight.
She struggled against my grip, clawed at my hand, her entire body trembling as she shifted my fingers away from her lips long enough to cry out, “Let me go! I have to save my daughter!”
That confirmed it—this was Ivy’s mother. The woman I’d protect, simply for being someone Ivy cared about.
I shifted my palm back over her mouth.
“Listen to me, please,” I said. “We’re not going to hurt you, but what I’m about to say could save Ivy’s life.”
Clearly, they were waiting on the mother. Why, I wasn’t sure, but they needed the mother as a chess piece. Remove her from the board, and Ivy had a chance.
At the mention of her daughter’s name, the woman stilled, her expression turning desperate as she searched my face, silently asking,You know Ivy?