Page 129 of Crossover

Poison was my least favorite way of killing people. Reason being, it relied too heavily on circumstances, such as the target needing to ingest food or swallow a drink that had been previously poisoned. Then, there was the whole angle of not getting discovered slipping said poison in without the target or his associates seeing. Said another way, it was the least reliable.

But we’d ruled out other methods. Guns and knives were out since I would be searched the moment I arrived. Deadly gas was ruled out, because innocents would die—not to mention me. A lethal allergy exploitation was ruled out, because Vosch had no known severe allergies, and again, even if he did…unreliable. I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to do? Invite him to dinner and slip shellfish onto his fork? A garrote wire was almost the pick, but hiding a wire deep enough on me to not be found, while being accessible enough to quickly grab it and use it, was deemed too unreliable as well.

So, here we were. Poison. But not just any poison. A synthetic blend created in a lab, because poisons like ricin, polonium-210, tetrodotoxin, or even botulinum needed to be injected to becertainof death. This synthetic blend increased the potency of these toxins to be so deadly that a simple scratch would be fatal.

This posed both an opportunity as well as a threat.

Glass half full, there was a chance I could scratch Vosch’s skin so lightly, he might not even notice. A small chance since the guy would be watching me like a hawk, expecting me to make a move against him, but at least it was something. On the other hand, the poison could just as easily scratch me. And that didn’t factor in the risk of Vosch or his associates turning on me for any reason—be it finding the poison when they searched me; catching me red-handed, trying to scratch Vosch; or even finding out that my family had left the States.

The latter, in my opinion, was the most likely reason they would turn on me.

My gaze swept down to the watch. The corner of which had been carefully sharpened and coated with the fatal poison. The invisible microscopic drop felt menacing on my wrist, my mind racing with all the ways this could go wrong long before I even reached Vosch.

Absolute worst-case scenario, some innocent civilian could bump into me.

That’s the thing that a lot of people don’t appreciate about a highly targeted operation. The level of uncertainty in any mission was much higher than any operative preferred, no matter how controlled the mission might be. I mean, take this as an example. A guy could pat me down and prick his own hand. If he dropped dead, it was game over—my cover blown, my skull riddled with bullets.

I could go on, but the point remained—there was no surefire way to eliminate Vosch, and there was certainly no way to do it while protecting my own life with no uncertainty.

But so help me, I’d do everything I could to take him down and keep my promise to Ivy.

With one last phone call, I confirmed that my family was safely in the air. Military radar showed no planes followingthem, yet they were using evasive maneuvers in their flight path just to be safe.

It looked like, for once, I had managed to protect everyone I loved.

Now, I’d have to protect the people of Chicago.

Because the location where Vosch demanded we meet was Union Station.

As a major transportation hub, the train station was home to thousands of daily travelers. That’s why he chose it: He knew the CIA would never willingly get into a shoot-out at a public location full of people.

Including children. And make no mistake—Vosch would find a way to smuggle arms past the station’s security. After all, that was his expertise—circumventing law enforcement’s defenses.

Despite every tactic the CIA employed to change the location, Vosch remained immovable, and now, he’d found a way to raise the stakes even higher:

The FBI had uncovered intel that the major attack planned for the city was going to happentoday. One with a high probability of mass casualties.

The bottom line was chillingly clear—if I didn’t take Vosch out, countless lives would be lost.

72

GRAYSON

Normally, Chicago’s Union Station was stunning. A grand and bustling landmark, it was known for its architectural beauty and historical significance. The main hall featured a soaring one-hundred-fifteen-foot atrium, crowned by a vaulted skylight, bathing the marble walls and floors in natural light. Around the periphery, various waiting areas, shops, and cafés catered to the heavy traffic of people whose footsteps and rolling suitcases echoed in the space.

But today, dangers lurked in every corner.

Over a hundred people ambled around the Great Hall, waiting to board their train. Any one of them could be one of Vosch’s, ready to pounce or, heaven forbid, detonate an explosive hidden in a briefcase or suitcase.

I wasn’t truly alone here, of course. The CIA had planted people this time, but they kept it to two men—less chance of being spotted. The guy ordering a coffee was one of ours, as was the guy on the far end of the room, both armed and ready for a fight if it came down to that. There was also a protocol to evacuate Union Station if things went south, along with many other layers of protection, but no matter what we did, if this turned ugly, not everyone would make it out alive.

My heart thrashed against my ribs as I walked toward the far corner of the building, and the second I spotted him, my throat ran dry.

Vosch sat on a bench with his arms spread out, like he was a king waiting to be served, while his minions stood around him. They couldn’t be more obvious if they tried, vision sweeping the place, arms folded in front of them while they searched for any sign of a problem. I counted ten of them, but there might be more.

They tensed when they spotted me, all of them rotating their torsos and tightening their positions around their leader.

Eachclick, click, clickof my steps was a thunderous reminder of what was at stake. To my left, a mother tenderly wiped her toddler’s face while behind her, another cradled an infant in a chest carrier. My heart clenched, a bittersweet ache of longing for a future that suddenly felt so fragile. Would I ever get to hold my own child? I pushed the thought away, reminding myself that if I failed, those kids might not be here tomorrow.

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