19. GRAYSON
19
GRAYSON
ONE YEAR, THIRTY-NINE DAYS AGO
“An American?” I hated it when the violent criminals we targeted were homegrown. It made it more insulting that they’d slaughter their own people, all with a side dish of becoming a global menace.
Slow clap . Way to represent the stars and stripes, asshole.
“We need to be careful about this one.” Daniel sat at the small table with his fingers wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. “We cannot have any suspicion that this was an assassination.”
Well, that’s interesting. “Why?” My word bounced against the bare walls of the safe house kitchen while I leaned against the counter.
“This guy is quiet. Few people know about his involvement yet, and the CIA wants to keep it that way. They don’t want to tip their hand that they’re onto this organization.”
“I think they’ll get the message if one of their own turns up dead.” I pulled out a chair and sat down, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor.
“Which is why it can’t look like murder.”
Damn. There was something so satisfying about a bullet to the forehead or a slice to the throat.
“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 the Journal 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 window showed 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.
As I drew closer, the water abruptly shut off, and Daniel’s warning echoed through my mind. No scuffle—don’t make it look like murder.
Inhaling deeply, I raised my weapon with both hands and spun around the corner.
Alistair Wainwright stood alone, drying his hands on his kitchen towel. His eyes widened, and his body stiffened, as his focus immediately locked on to the gun in my hand. Instead of panicking or pleading for his life, Alistair merely sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation.
“You’re early,” he said. “I need more time.”
What the hell? I couldn’t decide which part of his statement was stranger—the calm, unsurprised tone of his voice when speaking with an armed intruder or the notion that he was expecting me.
I thought he and his organization didn’t know the CIA was onto them. And even if they did know, even if they somehow suspected we’d come for them, criminals didn’t take that lying down. They maneuvered to avoid their fate.
He might be just trying to distract you, Grayson. Focus. Get this done and get out.
“Walk into the bedroom,” I ordered, my grip tightening on the gun.
Alistair complied with another sigh, and I pressed the muzzle of the gun against his back as we made our way to the bedroom—a more appropriate location for what was about to happen.
“Sit on the bed,” I commanded. As if you’re pondering all the mistakes you’ve made in your life.
He walked to the edge, hands in the air. “Please, if you could just give me one more week?—”
“Sit,” I demanded.
“But this should be my call.” His tone turned angry.
“You’re not calling the shots. Now, sit!”
He glared at me.
“This can be easy or painful. I suggest you take the easy route.” It was a bluff; I couldn’t make this painful for him, not as a suicide, but he didn’t need to know that.
The guy stared at the ground, his hands balling into fists, while, outside, a dog began barking.
“I’d like to be shot in the heart.” He sat down in a defeated plop. “I read it’s instantaneous.”
“The people you killed didn’t get to choose how they died,” I snarled. Daniel hadn’t told me how many people had died because of this guy, but the CIA only went after deadly threats.
Alistair’s head snapped back. “What?”
I drew my weapon closer.
“Wait.” He threw his palms out in front of him. “What are you talking about?” Look at those wide eyes, the feigned confusion in his voice. “I’ve never—wait!” he cried.
I pressed my pistol to his temple.
“No,” he pleaded, his focus darting between the gun and my face. “If you do that, they’ll think I?—”
Bam. One loud sound, one quiet hole to the side of his head, and the man’s lifeless body thumped to the ground.
Neighbors would have heard that shot. A silencer was out of the question with a suicide, so now, the hardest part of my job started—not getting caught.
I staged the suicide quickly. I gently pushed the gun into the right hand—the one Daniel had told me was his dominant—wrapped his finger around the trigger, and holding it firmly enough to leave his, and only his, fingerprints, raised his hand and let it fall naturally, the gun landing just beside him.
Thankfully, the gun didn’t discharge in the process.
I studied him, trying to place myself in the mind of a skeptical detective. The bullet wound was in the right location, gun registered in his name lying next to him, his body at the right angle.
After feeling confident the stage was set, I peered out the front window. People were emerging from their houses, looking up and down the block, trying to place the sound.
Worse, a woman appeared to be running toward the bungalow’s front door.
Shit. I darted to the back door, thankful there was no one outside it. Yet.
Luck . The damn word gnawed at me as I slipped outside and vanished, thankfully, without being seen.
“It was like he was expecting me.” I ran a hand through my hair.
Daniel sat up straighter, his fingers drumming on the table. “Maybe they do know we’re onto them.”
I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all. “But he was expecting me to come later. He said he needed more time,” I continued. “Another week, at least.”
Daniel chewed on his lower lip, his gaze distant. At least I wasn’t the only one confused by it.
“And,” I added, “he acted like…he should be the one calling the shots.”
Daniel shook his head. “Maybe he was just trying to confuse you.”
“That’s what I thought at first,” I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. “But he acted more surprised when I accused him of killing people than he did at being killed himself.”
Daniel reached for his coffee mug, taking a long sip, his fingers tapping against the ceramic.
“He’s not the first criminal whose behavior is odd,” he mused, almost to himself.
That was fair. When confronted with death, people didn’t always act how you’d expect.
“Maybe he just figured his crimes would catch up to him at some point and was surprised how soon it did,” Daniel offered.
“Maybe,” I allowed, but doubt still nagged at me. “But I swear, he had this look on his face like he was… grateful I was there. He was just…upset the timing was off. Who looks like that when they’re met with an armed intruder?”
Daniel sighed, his shoulders sagging a bit. “Maybe he’d resigned himself to his fate.”
I mulled it over, trying to make it fit. I guess that made sense. After all, what else could it mean?
Daniel leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Look, it was a success. You did good, Grayson. Police don’t suspect anything, and the CIA is happy. Take it as a win.”
I nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. A win. That’s what this was, right?
Daniel stood up, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it too much. Sometimes, things just don’t make sense. The important thing is, the job’s done.”
I took a deep breath, pushing the nagging doubts aside.
He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading for the door.
“Get some rest, Grayson. You’ve earned it.”
As the door closed behind him, I leaned back in my chair, trying to let go of the questions swirling in my mind.
It was a win , I told myself. That’s all that mattered.