Black and Brown: Raven Assassins (Ravens #1)

Chapter Twenty-two

Mirage

Mirage was at Grace’s back where he belonged, watching their six as they sprinted up the stairwell, taking the steps four at a time.

They weren’t even winded when they reached the twenty-ninth floor, keeping the same pace as when they started for the last few floors.

Grace exploded through the rooftop door with both arms extended, holding a Beretta handgun in each hand.

He and Mirage connected their backs and executed a full circle, searching for unwanted company.

Given how the Ravens had set them up, they expected the unexpected.

“You’re clear,” Spectre confirmed as he and Grace hurried and made their way to the west edge of the roof.

Grace squatted and snapped open the case to find a basic-ass M24 rifle.

What the…?

It was a gross downgrade from the accuracy and sophistication of the MK13s or the SAKO 22s he’d been training with for months.

Grace’s stoic demeanor was unchanged, his face a carved mask of stone as he quickly assembled the weapon with the ease one would use to set up a beach chair. He adjusted the low-quality scope and got in position.

The click-clack of Spectre’s keyboard sounded as if he was typing three hundred words per minute.

“You’re allotted three shots, Grace. Two center mass, one in the right temple.”

The fuckin’ fuck!

They wanted Grace to hit a target in two exact places from a mile and a half away…with that piece of shit?

Spectre fell silent to allow them to concentrate.

Grace reached behind his back, knowing Mirage was there, and handed him the spotter scope. He kneeled behind Grace instead of beside him—where a spotter should be positioned—and put his eye to the lens.

There were customers seated at nearby tables that Mirage didn’t want to end up as collateral damage.

If this was their test, killing an innocent bystander would probably be considered a failure.

“Eleven minutes, thirty-two seconds,” Spectre informed.

Mirage watched Grace’s six in his peripheral—despite Spectre doing the same through a satellite feed—all while keeping their target in sight.

Mirage counted Berkowitz’s subtle movements.

Headshots were the worst target for even the best sniper.

Mirage had to finely time the way their target turned, nodded, or tilted his head as he conversed with the men around him. The intervals between the sips of his drink before he put his cigar between his lips. Counting his inhalations and exhalations.

During their time of extensive training, Mirage had melded into the role of analyzing and providing computational support for his partner.

His mind was so enhanced he could calculate almost as fast as an arithmetic logic CPU while he quickly assessed the best position to protect innocents from potential ricochets.

Grace was waiting for the coordinates. Mirage knew his partner wouldn’t move until he gave the go.

“Target on berm, aim left edge.” Mirage was so close his lips brushed Grace’s earlobe.

“On,” Grace murmured.

“Range 2690, 0.4 left, wind SW half value.”

Grace adjusted his scope in response. “Shooter ready.”

“Spotter up, negative adjustments. Hold scope.”

“Holding and standing by,” Grace gritted.

Mirage calculated the travel velocity of the bullet, then the 3.6 seconds for Berkowitz to put his cigar down and exhale the thick plume of smoke.

There was no need to wait for the fog to clear. Grace could see through it.

“Prepare to send.”

Mirage felt the intake of Grace’s breath against his chest, then made the call.

“Fire, fire,” Mirage called in rapid succession, staying clear of the jolt of Grace’s body from the recoil.

Mirage waited the split second for Berkowitz to jerk from the shock and propel backward from the impact, leaving Grace’s opening to hit the right temple.

“Fire,” Mirage commanded.

The bullet entered so precise and clean that the bullet didn’t exit, preventing brain or blood splatter.

Before either of them could turn and bolt, Spectre intercepted their retreat.

“Hold position.”

Their handler’s voice was sharp and strained, meaning whatever sudden change had been assigned, he wasn’t happy about it.