Black and Brown: Raven Assassins (Ravens #1)

Chapter Twenty-one

Grace

Grace stared out the window of the blacked-out Suburban while Mirage’s gaze bounced from the driver, who they’d often seen in the observation booth during their training times, to the stoic man in the passenger seat.

Grace stared at Mirage long enough to convey, Why is he here?

Mirage flexed his wrists, and Grace saw the glint of metal from his blades.

He eased one side of his trench—designed specifically for him—to show Mirage a glimpse of his MultiFlex holster concealing four handguns.

Two Berettas and two .45 Magnums.

Maybe the passenger was a guard.

After all, he and Mirage were a high commodity. The agency had invested considerable assets into developing its new weapons.

No one was supposed to know they existed, but the Ravens didn’t appear to be an organization without contingency plans for the unexpected.

He and Mirage chose to leave in the evening, preferring to enjoy the night ambiance rather than the broad daylight.

Grace wore a grim expression when the driver stopped in front of a high-end restaurant.

The passenger glanced in the mirror and told them to enjoy their meal.

Grace scoped out the entrance to Terrapas fine-dining restaurant on the first floor of a thirty-story building before he got out.

Mirage met him on the other side of the SUV, both of them scanning the street and sidewalks.

“I guess the director was being honest,” Mirage said before he followed some men in business suits into the waiting area. “I hope they have good seafood options.”

He and Mirage were dressed decently in their umber-brown slacks and collared shirts.

Mirage wore a custom-fitted blazer suit coat with an oversized cashmere hood, and Grace wore a new knee-length Kevlar-lined almond-shade trench.

It probably seemed odd for them not to remove their hoods once seated in the dimly lit restaurant, but few glanced in their direction since they were so far removed from the main dining room.

The tablecloths were stark white, with two five-piece place settings positioned on top.

A polite lady with a smile as brilliant as the tablecloths gave them a slight nod before she filled their water glasses and left.

Another woman approached shortly after. She was older and well-toned.

The first thing Grace noticed was that she didn’t crack a smile when she handed them the hardcover menus and then walked away without welcoming them or even informing them of the evening’s specials.

Grace’s temple pulsed.

Something’s not right , he relayed to Mirage .

They both moved to get up, but a Black man with rich brown skin, waist-long dreadlocks, and an obvious bulge on his hip blocked their path.

He glared at them hard enough to frighten an undisciplined man, then displayed a phony smile.

“Gentlemen, I strongly recommend the tuna tartare. It’s delicious enough to kill for.”

Grace eased back against the curved booth, exchanging a knowing look with Mirage.

His partner opened the menu.

There was no food listed.

Today was not a day of rest—it was the start of a harrowing test of their skills, nerves, and ability to conform.

It was confirmation that the Ravens’ personnel extended further than the confines of their headquarters. This was all staged. No wonder no one had blinked at their hoods. But Grace didn’t waste time wondering how many others in the restaurant were working for the director.

Mirage removed the two earpieces taped inside the faux menu and handed one to Grace while he scrutinized the candid photo of a Caucasian man with a messy shoulder-length ponytail, wearing a black suit jacket and a canary-yellow dress shirt with no tie.

He was seated with two other men and surrounded by an entourage of stone-faced bodyguards who all exuded criminality.

He and Mirage put their earpieces in. “Looks like it’s time to impress, gentlemen.”

Spectre’s calm, confident voice echoed through his earpiece.

Grace could hear the swift clacking of keys on a keyboard and papers rattling.

Had their handler also been fooled into thinking he had the day off, only to be thrown in the hot seat?

“I’ve located your positions,” Spectre confirmed. “Your target is David Berkowitz, leader of a drug organization, who’s here one night to receive a shipment of ketamine and cocaine.”

Mirage was scanning the few details listed for them to execute the mission as Grace seared the face of their target into his mind.

“I’m scanning facial recognition software within a twenty-mile radius of your location.”

Before Spectre finished the last word of his sentence, he confirmed, “Got him. He’s at the Blue Lagoon Lounge on the roof of the Prosperity Bank skyscraper thirteen blocks west.”

More papers rustled in Grace’s ear a few seconds before Spectre notified, “Your hardware is on the roof. You’ve got fifteen minutes to climb thirty-three floors and execute the target.”

Mirage set the menu down, and the man with dreads appeared out of nowhere and snatched it off the table.

Grace gave Mirage a hard glare and got out of the booth with Mirage close on his heels as they made their way toward the emergency exit in the back of the restaurant.

He recognized the snick of Mirage flicking a blade from his wrist. Mirage reached around him, his forearm grazing Grace’s waist to cut the wire to disable the alarm a second before Grace threw open the door.