9. GRAYSON
9
GRAYSON
Hunter leaned forward, squinting through the windshield as he flicked the wipers back on.
The woman in the parking lot stumbled, her hands grasping at the wet pavement as she tried to push herself up.
I watched her closely, my mind racing. Her movements were erratic, desperate.
“A CIA operative’s behavior would be more controlled,” I mused.
Hunter’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Then, who is she?”
A chilling thought crept into my mind, sending a frost through my body. My breath caught as I spoke the haunting realization. “Ivy’s mother.”
Hunter’s head snapped toward me. “You’ve seen her before?”
The woman was on her feet now, staggering toward the building.
“No. But it has to be. Daniel said something about calling the mother. Who else could she be?”
Which only solidified that something was seriously wrong here. The CIA didn’t bring family members or other civilians into interrogations; interrogations were top-secret, need-to- know situations, aimed at extracting classified intelligence in order to protect the country or the masses.
If this wasn’t a CIA interrogation, then one question shot through my head: what the hell was really going on?
I wasn’t sure, but my instincts screamed one thing loud and clear. “If we don’t stop her before she goes inside,” I warned, “they might kill her, too.”
Before he could respond, I was out of the car, the door slamming behind me. The icy rain hit my face, blurring my vision as I sprinted toward the building, my feet pounding against the road, each step fueled by the desperate need to reach her in time.
I had to save her. And Ivy.