Page 35 of Crossover

“An accident, then?” I loathed it when we had to stage a kill like that.

First of all, there were always variables that made the kill harder. Always. Second of all, it was a bigger pain in the ass, setting the stage clean enough where even law enforcement wouldn’t be the wiser—because if they did, kaboom, it’d be classified as murder, defeating the entire purpose of staging the scene.

“Too messy. Too risky. Doesn’t have the certainty that other methods have.”

“Suicide?”

When Daniel nodded, all I could think was,Great.

I take back what I said. Staging a suicide was my least favorite way to eliminate assholes. I’d done it three times, and all three times, something had gone wrong. One fought back. Another guy shifted, and the angle of the bullet was off, calling his death into question. And the third, he shot at me. Luckily, we managed to pull all three off, but let me repeat that word.

Luckily. I was not a fan of luck. I was a fan of meticulous planning, organizing, and carrying out targeted removals with the stealth of a ghost.

“Won’t his associates still be suspicious?” I challenged, the chair’s wood creaking under my weight as I leaned back.

“They might be suspicious no matter what, but evidently, the guy’s been going through some struggles. A suicide is more believable than a sudden tragic accident.”

“Falling from a skyscraper has such a nice ring to it, though.”

Daniel ignored my sarcasm and slid a piece of paper to me. “His name and address.”

I opened it, the paper rough against my fingertips.

Alistair Wainwright.

“He lives just outside of Chicago?”

“No travel. Wish they were all this simple, eh?”

Simple, my ass. I’d rather travel to a secret room hidden beneath the ocean than stage another suicide.

As Daniel brought the coffee mug to his lips, I memorized the information, including the target’s photo, walked to the stove, and burned the paper using its flame. Charred dust fell to the ground as Daniel stood up.

“Notify me when it’s done,” Daniel said. “And, Grayson?”

I waited.

“Don’t leave any evidence of a struggle.”

I stood across the street, surveying the blue bungalow sandwiched tightly between its neighbors. The proximity of the houses increased the risk of being seen or heard, so I’d have to be careful.

Coming here in the middle of the night wasn’t an option; according to a study published in theJournal of Clinical Psychiatry, most suicides took place between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon. While suicide could occur at any time, day or night, the CIA was a careful organization that paid attention to even the smallest details.

So, here I was, at high noon—peak time for situations like this.

But high noon came with the pesky ball in the sky making it nearly impossible to hide. Thus the reason why I was dressed as a utility worker.

With a quick glance up and down the block to ensure no one was looking at me, I strode with purpose toward the back of the bungalow. Luckily, the backyards were completely empty—so maybe luck would be on my side after all. A peek in the windowshowed the man was alone in his kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the fate that awaited him.

With swift movements, I slipped on my black gloves, the supple leather molding to my fingers like a second skin. My lockpick was in my left pocket, but to my welcome surprise, the back door was unlocked.

After one final sweep of my surroundings, I gently twisted the knob, the door opening with a soft creak as I slipped inside. The living room, which was littered with old sports magazines, was dominated by a flat screen TV, and the air was heavy with the scent of frozen pizza.

A poor choice for a last meal, if you ask me.

I advanced slowly, quietly, listening to the sounds of the man’s steps, followed by clinking and running water.

I pulled the pistol from my jacket, the metal a familiar weight in my hands. The gun had been registered to this man—thank you, CIA IT team—so if all went well, I should be out in a couple of minutes.

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