Page 96 of Crossfire

A rush of oxygen escaped me.Okay, that explains his response; it’s too premature for him to realize this is a mistake.What a relief.

It’s funny how you can know something with every fiber of your being, and yet, when you’re about to be confronted with the indisputable truth, fear has a way of coiling through your veins like an infection.

This will all be fine,I told myself, my thoughts racing to keep pace with my hammering heart.

As soon as Daniel saw the files, we’d shift into alerting the CIA. They could help clean up this mess.

A mess that could’ve put the CIA in massive hot water.

I hadn’t even thought of this icing on the cake until this moment, but as if protecting Ivy wasn’t rewarding enough, there would be a sweet-ass bonus to all of this.

The CIA would commend Daniel for keeping an innocent target alive and preventing a crisis that could have shattered the agency’s reputation. And I sure as hell wouldn’t interject that I’d played a role in that decision.

After screwing up the Vosch operation, I was glad there might be a silver lining for Daniel’s reputation.

My attention drifted back to Ivy’s face, whose fate might be determined within the hour.

43

IVY

For someone hiding from an oopsy-daisy target on their back, I could have much worse accommodations—I’ll tell you that. This cabin, hidden in the sprawling wilderness, was spotless. Either brand-new or newly remodeled, it had hardwood flooring, blanketed with large area rugs that cushioned your feet from the autumn chill. If that didn’t warm you enough, you could leverage the fireplace that sat beneath a flat screen television, opposite a sectional sofa, complete with fluffy pillows that invited you to sink into its comfort.

And then there was the kitchen, gleaming with high-end appliances and gray cabinetry, each element whispering hints of Grayson’s sophistication and mystery.

I mean, who, exactly, was Grayson? How did a person turn into a CIA assassin, and more importantly, why?

At the risk of sounding like a fool, Grayson seemed nice. Caring, even. I mean look at him—going to these lengths to hide me until he could get this strange CIA termination plot fixed.

And on that note, that was another great point that I needed to remind myself of. He was going against his direct orders, just to try and protect me.

He could have killed me in my townhouse, questions be damned. He could have come to his senses and killed me at his penthouse. But he didn’t. He listened, he believed me, and he drove all the way here so no one else could get to me.

Who was this killer slash protector? How many people had he ended? How many others had he protected?

How many people had Grayson taken here before me? Were any of them women?

My stomach walls tightened at the thought. Why didthatquestion creep into my mind? And what was with the intestinal blanching?

“I hope you like spaghetti,” Grayson said.

I followed Grayson’s voice into the kitchen, where he scrubbed his bubbly hands beneath the sink’s water.

“Won’t be homemade, just bottled sauce and noodles. Easy to heat up.”

For the record, I didn’t want my lips to curl up on one side. They did that all on their own.

“My dad used to make me spaghetti every Sunday.” I don’t know why I said that. But Dad used to stand, washing his hands just like that, and then he’d wear his#1 Dadapron, which was littered with stains, but he still wore it every time he cooked because I’d given it to him for Father’s Day when I was seven.

He cherished everything I ever gave him.

My eyes burned.

“Will you tell me about him?” Grayson dried his hands on a towel.

Those hands…they were capable of the most violent things imaginable. Stabbing, shooting, choking, snapping bones. But with me, they were making me food.

“How long do you think it will take?” I asked.

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