Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
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.
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.