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Grace

Grace wasn’t keen on the looks Mirage gave him or the tone of his voice when he asked questions.

Neither spoke while they waited for their handler to finish talking to whoever all those men were behind the laptops, but Mirage looked a bit too smug for Grace’s liking.

“All right, fellas, let’s see what we got.” Spectre broke into Grace’s concentration.

Their handler began tapping away on a high-tech tablet as Grace studied his features. He was pretty good at pinpointing nationalities from his many years abroad. Spectre was about six foot with a lithe frame, sculpted shoulders, and veiny forearms. He had an attractive blend of olive skin, sharp jawlines, and piercing dark eyes that made him Mediterranean handsome.

“I emphasize ‘we’ because this is a three-way partnership. Success requires us to be in sync, to anticipate what each other will say and do before it’s done.”

Spectre’s baritone voice was low and smooth, his demeanor cool, collected, and overflowing with confidence.

“I was an agent handler in the CIA for twenty-two years before the Ravens recruited me. I assume because I have a ninety-eight percent mission success rate, and I’ve never lost a man.”

He looked them each in the eye, holding his glare for a long moment before he stressed, “Your lives are in my hands when you’re out there. You may not trust me right this second, but I guarantee you will before you leave this training field tonight.”

Now Spectre was speaking Grace’s language.

He didn’t need to know where his handler had grown up or if he’d had a good childhood. He wasn’t concerned with the traits of his zodiac sign, and he didn’t want to know what his goddamn hobbies were.

Grace only cared if he could do his fucking job. He respected capability over all else.

“Let’s get wired up and show these motherfuckers what the Browns can do because second generation doesn’t mean second best.”

Spectre turned and walked away.

Several geeky-looking guys watched them through a window from an enclosed room with Control Room etched in the door’s frosted glass.

Mr. Fancy Shoes Director and his large following of suits were in an observation booth, staring down on them as if they were gods of the universe, ready to judge.

The training session started, causing a rush of adrenaline to flood Grace’s veins as the new reality of his life settled in.

And this was only the beginning of his journey, a life he’d walk with the man standing at his six.

So close and silent.

If Grace wasn’t confident he was there, he would’ve thought it was his imagination…a ghostly spirit he felt on the sensitive hairs on the back of his neck.