Page 26 of Crossfire

“We don’t give out customer information,” she said.

I tilted my head. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Next?” she shouted over my shoulder.

You know, she was lucky she was a woman right now. My fist might’ve broken a guy’s teeth if he kept up his unnecessary assholeness. I was a professional and did my best to keep a low profile, but I was a lethal operative, filled with the rage and sin it took to carry that off.

“Hold on,” I said, raising a hand to stall the increasingly impatient line. “I’m not done.”

If the guy behind me realized how many ways I could end him without breaking a sweat, his glower would vanish quick.

“Is she a regular?” I asked.

No response.

“Manager. Now,” I demanded as a last-ditch effort.

Her smirk was a slap. “Afraid she’s at the bank. Buy something or leave. Your choice.”

Irritation ground through my veins. If she wanted to be this goddamned impossible, I could be, too.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have a nonfat, extra-hot latte—at 120 degrees precisely—with one and a half pumps of sugar-free caramel, one pump of vanilla, and a whisper of chocolate. Add a sprinkle of cinnamon. Oh, and I’d like my milk to be a blend of 2 percent and soy milk, frothed separately but poured together. Top it all off with a small dollop of whipped cream, a drizzle of caramel sauce, and a very thin zigzag of chocolate syrup.”

The girl’s chest rose so high, I wondered if she’d float away like a damn helium balloon.

“Do you need me to repeat that?” I raised my eyebrows.

I have to admit, I took pleasure in watching her fingers punch so many damn keys on her screen that at one point she even had to pause to address a chipped nail. After I paid for the drink I had no intention of consuming, I waited at the end of the counter, figuring it would look suspicious if I left without the drink. At least waiting gave me time to go over what I’d have to say to Daniel.

I wasn’t used to delivering bad news to him.

I scrubbed my face, wishing this day would end, missing how simple my life had been before—get an assignment, murder some asshole, rinse, repeat.

“Prince Charming?” a barista called out, smirking at the name I’d given. Shame she had to make it rather than the redhead who’d taken my order.

When I snagged my drink, I asked this new girl about Ivy, but she didn’t know either.

Damn. I’d lost my only lead in finding this woman. Maybe Daniel could at least try to get her name from the police—maybe the cops wouldn’t stonewall him?—

“She comes here every day.” A loud, baritone voice interrupted my thoughts.

I blinked and looked around until I found the source—a guy in his mid-fifties with a long beard, sitting alone in front of his laptop screen. Close enough to the counter that he must have overheard my conversation with the barista.

“The woman. Ivy,” he said. “She’s a regular.”

I stepped closer to him, trying to conceal my eagerness behind a veil of mild curiosity. “Do you know her?”

“No. I’m a regular. See her in here almost every day, too.”

“And the lovely barista”—I nodded toward the crimson-haired disaster piece—“she knows this?”

He smirked. “Can’t tell you how satisfying it was to see someone put her in her place.”

“So, she’s always a ray of sunshine?”

His lips twitched higher. “Used to think she was having a bad day, but that ain’t true. Unless she has three hundred and sixty-five of them each year.”

I smirked—to play the part of a non-assassin asking non-killer-type questions.

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