Page 25 of Crossfire

Not that it helped. After the encounter, she disappeared into the crowded streets of Chicago. I followed her, of course, and while I certainly wasn’t a skilled PI, accustomed to tracking targets, Ivy was either incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky to have lost her tail. I had maintained a larger distance behind her, on account of her already having met me in the coffee shop,and also because, unlike her demeanor on the city bus, she kept looking over her shoulder.

The way Ivy glanced back wasn’t just cautious; it was practiced, like she was used to being chased.

I tracked her for three city blocks before I lost sight of her for what I thought was only a moment. But as that moment turned into ten, then twenty, I cursed under my breath, wondering how in the world one lone woman could evade a CIA operative.

Had I’d been too quick to presume her innocence?

As if the day hadn’t been bad enough, I’d resorted to going into every single establishment up and down the block I’d last seen her, all to no avail.

Chances were, I would have to report yet another failure to my boss before the day was over, but I refused to go that route unless I had to—it was grinding on my last nerve that another screwup was on the horizon, and that it might take us forever to comb through all that footage and run it against facial recognition software. Just to uncover a name. Meanwhile, a violent arms dealer was loose in Chicago, and the clock was ticking to find him.

So, I’d stomped back to this damn coffee shop to ask around. An absolute Hail Mary—this was Chicago, not a small town, but here I was, posing as a customer, smiling like I was Prince Charming rather than the villain.

“What can I get you?” The barista’s voice was flat.

If this woman knew how rare it was for me to smile, she wouldn’t return it with a damn scowl.

“I have a question, actually.”

She should also appreciate what a treat it was, my using this friendly tone, but annoyance coated her features.

I’d once had to climb over six decomposing bodies to reach my target. This woman’s restingscrew youface was an evenmore unpleasant obstacle than that one, and it made it even harder to keep up my nice-guy act.

“Do you know that woman that was in here about an hour ago?”

“A woman.” The redhead glared at me. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

My lips thinned. “Her name is Ivy?”

The barista looked over my shoulder at the line forming behind me.

“Perhaps she’s been in here before?” I drummed my fingers on the counter. “Dark hair, hoodie, she was talking to another guy, and they had a bit of a confrontation that?—”

“Sir, are you going to order anything?” The girl popped a fucking bubble with her gum.

A bubble.

My fingers stopped drumming, coiling into a ball.

“I’ll order in a minute. Just answer me—do you know her?”

She chose to chomp on her gum this time, her eyes rolling.

Here I thought, my training covered all forms of resistance, but clearly, I’d underestimated the power of teenage apathy; I was not telling Daniel that my biggest lead was thwarted by the impenetrable defense of bubble gum and disdain.

“It’s just that she dropped something,” I lied. “And I want to get it back to her.”

She extended her hand, but when I stared at it, she managed to look even more annoyed. Which was saying something.

“I’ll add it to the lost and found,” she said. Rudely, of course.

“I’d like to get it to her myself,” I countered. “Her last name. Do you know it?”

“If you’re not going to order anything, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.” She swooshed her pointy purple fingernails through the air.

God, I missed my normal job description that included things like bullets, bombs, and poison. Playing charades with the most annoying civilians in history tested my patience.

“Do any of your colleagues know her last name?” I scanned the other workers buzzing around so quickly, they appeared to be short-staffed.

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