How the hell did this killer pick the first victim? What he did know was that Ethan and Gene got tagged into the worst messes.
This was proof.
When his phone rang, he picked it up, and kept working.
“Croft.”
That’s when he heard the voice.
“Agent Croft, a little birdie told me you’re curious,” Gabe said. “And after your text about the mob, I wanted to know more.”
Well, damn.
Now, he had to talk to him. As for him being curious, how could he not be?
That kind of went with the job.
Right?
“Yeah, I am. Blackhawk and Cantrell are moving pretty well through this case. They hit the ground running this morning, and we’ve already eliminated the mob—thanks to your help.”
“When Ethan arrived?” he asked.
Goddamn it.
It was in that moment that Greyson knew.
Yep.
Gabe was on the trail.
The man didn’t ask questions without already knowing the answer. He was like your Italian Nona. She’d ask, then, when you lied, she’d take that wooden spoon to your backside.
Been there.
Done that.
“Well, it would be silly if they started before he arrived,” he said, playing that game.
Gabe actually laughed.
“Oh, Greyson Croft, you’re funny. Do you think you’ll have a long career here?” he asked.
Immediately, his hackles went up, and there was that intense hate for Sasha Harper for fucking them all over good by pointing Gabe at them.
“Absolutely.”
Gabe continued.
“And when you’re a director one day, and you know something is going on, how will you handle it?”
Fuckity.
His ass was grass. He was now playing mind games with a man who used to profile homicide cases before his director days.
So, he was honest.
Somewhat.
