Page 33 of Crossfire

But that’s what I was. A stalker. Waiting for my target to show.

The regular who’d given me her name glanced over his laptop, his eyebrows knitting together as he leered at me, sitting in the same spot I’d been in for so long that the air between us charged with his suspicion.

I glimpsed at my watch.

Goddammit, how was it possible that only six minutes had passed since I last checked the time? Would she even show up today?

My gaze swept the coffee shop again, piercing through the veil of normalcy that shrouded the unsuspecting people who had no idea that among them sat a lethal operative. To them, this was just an ordinary location to grab food or drinks, but to a trained asset, it was a battlefield of potentialities.

The solid countertops and heavy tables could fracture a skull with a well-aimed shove. The milk steamers—which hissed and spat, filling the air with a scalding mist that smelled of burned sugar and bitter coffee beans—offered the potential of hot, scalding jets that could sear skin and disorient a target long enough for a decisive blow to the head. Strangulation was a tried-and-true method, but the crowded space was infested with too many witnesses who might try to be a hero and stop an attack. On the other hand, a sea of bodies would make it easier to disappear within seconds.

And then there was the coffee itself, where a simple drop of poison could silently stop a beating heart, long after the person’s killer slipped through that front door and blended into pedestrian traffic.

In this seemingly mundane setting, death was one decision away.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I ran the first name Ivy through all known databases of suspected criminals.”

“I thought you were busy scanning surveillance footage.”

“One of my guys was in a holding pattern, waiting for data to download, so I had him cross-reference the name while he waited.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m aging here.”

“Nothing. No hits. He also ran alternatives to Ivy, in case it’s shortened for something. Ivanna, Ivette, Ivoria, Ivylene—that kind of thing.”

“If you tell me you found a hit after all this buildup…”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“She’s clean?”

“First name is. Unless it’s an alias.”

I thought back to my interaction with her yesterday. Both the ex and a coffee shop regular knew her as Ivy. I suppose it was possible she came here regularly to build up an alternative identity, but that was next level, and so far, nothing about her screamed next-level criminal.

Then again, maybe I was underestimating her.

“What about facial recognition?” I pressed. “For a last name.”

“Haven’t gotten to that.”

The front door of the coffee shop opened, and finally, the guest of honor walked inside.

“Gotta go.” I cut the call.

I waited for her to stand in line for a solid minute before I stood up and claimed the position behind her, pretending to be engrossed in my tablet while the line moved slowly toward the counter.

As the door swung open once again, a crisp morning breeze swept through the coffee shop, along with a boisterous laugh—emanating from a woman who’d just strolled in. Beside the blonde stood a man, his arm draped casually over her shoulders, who surveyed the room with an air of expectation.

Not just any guy. That was the guy who’d grabbed Ivy yesterday. Today, he tried to disguise his repulsive personality with a three-piece suit, but I could tell by the smug curl to his lips when he spotted Ivy that seeing her here was no accident.

Of course it wasn’t; according to the regular, this was Ivy’s normal time, and based on the smug look on his ugly-ass face, he was here to provoke her.

Into what, I had no idea, but the protective flare to step between her and this douchebag came back with a vengeance.

Especially when I turned and witnessed Ivy’s reaction.

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