Page 134 of Crossover

“Can’t it?”

“If you want to make money,” I managed, “there are far less deadly ways to do it. So, why this?”

Maybe I should just go for his cheek.

Vosch’s lips curled into a thin smile. “You know, there’s something people like you struggle to grasp,” he said. “We’re not all cut from the same cloth, but that doesn’t mean we lack ambition. Some of us just…see the bigger picture.”

“People like me,” I echoed, the words bitter on my tongue.

I couldn’t reach his face; his goon was too close.

What if I took out the guy closest to me? Could I grab his gun in time?

Vosch leaned forward, drawing his arm closer.

Patience will save lives, Grayson. You go too early, everyone’ll die.

“Let’s call it what it is—followers,” Vosch continued. “From birth, you’re molded into what the system wants. You’re funneled through their schools, pushed into cramped offices, scraping by on wages that barely cover your needs. All while the powers that be pull the strings, controlling the cost of your very existence.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Most never realize the extent of their captivity. But people like me?” A hair-raising smile stretched across his face. “We’re the ones who see the board, who move the pieces.”

A woman passed by with two children, her gaze lingering a moment too long. Vosch’s men shifted, their stares razor-sharp, until she hurried past, clutching her kids closer.

“So, this is about power.”

“Who doesn’t like to be a king?” Vosch asked.

He would see it like that, wouldn’t he?

“Kings don’t kill innocent people,” I countered.

“Don’t they?” Vosch challenged. “When they go after his throne or invade his land, do people not die in the wars fought for him?”

“So, that’s all this is? You want to feel like a king?”

No answer.

“But in your case, people like this”—I motioned toward the travelers—“aren’t coming after your throne. So, why do it?”

“Every business has collateral damage.”

I gripped my seat tighter, but I forced myself to calm down. I could not let my emotions get the better of me. If I did, I would be more likely to make a miscalculation.

Vosch shifted his position again, thankfully removing his hands from behind his head and bringing them onto his lap.

Much easier to reach. Two and a half feet, tops.

Even better, he began rolling up his sleeves to his elbows.

The act made my pulse accelerate with hope; it gave me more skin to work with, the first lucky break I’d had, really. By the looks of it, Vosch seemed to be relaxing, and I was keeping my calm—my emotions locked in a compartment to minimize the risk of doing something stupid.

But suddenly, I stiffened.

Because there, on his right forearm, was a scar I’d never read about in any report. The tattoo covering it, of a thunderstorm and lightning—thatI’d read about. But looking at it closer, the lightning bolt wasn’t the red ink like I thought; it was actually a jagged lump of raised flesh.

As I stared, fragments of my conversation with Ivy flashed through my mind.

“The guy that tried to kidnap me when I was thirteen…”

My attention remained locked on to his forearm, the sleeve riding up just enough to reveal…

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