Page 27

Mirage

Mirage sat across from Grace in the Browns’ luxurious helicopter, equipped with everything from a kitchen to a full-size bath and wardrobe.

He stared out the window at the expansive Atlantic Ocean while studying his partner in his peripheral.

The ride was smooth, and the noise from the high-performance engine was nonexistent. It was so quiet he could hear every extended breath his partner took.

Grace sipped a cognac while staring at the television station broadcasting world news.

Every few minutes, his forehead would crinkle in the middle—an undetectable gesture only Mirage would notice—before he corrected it.

“Is the world still shitty as fuck?”

Grace let out a hard grunt—which meant yes—then took another drink.

The cabin was again encased in silence.

The lengthy stints of quietness between them were never uncomfortable.

Not when Mirage was oversensitive to the one person he could feel in every part of himself.

“Refill, sir?”

Grace nodded, and the courteous stewardess—a Ravens’ employee—poured him another two fingers of the tawny-colored liquid.

It was Grace’s third glass…he was tired.

“I’m going to tell Spectre that we’re logging training hours this week. It’s been almost six months since we last did any.”

It meant they wouldn’t be given another assignment for a while. It also meant a full week off.

Training together and honing their skills was enjoyable, relaxing. And not working or researching a case meant they could sleep in their own beds.

Grace glanced at him with those expressive mahogany eyes that most people weren’t privileged to see because of his hood.

They held eye contact for several seconds before Mirage whispered, “You’re welcome.”

After the helicopter set down on the heliport pad at headquarters, they pulled their hoods low enough to cover the top halves of their faces and exited the aircraft.

Their luggage, equipment, and artillery would be removed by their staff, serviced, and stored in their departments.

Mirage was no more than a couple of feet off Grace’s heels, concealed in his darkness.

Grace was his eyes, and he relied on his body language to alert him to incoming problems.

Mirage registered the faint sound of synced footsteps before Grace reduced the space between them, indicating danger was approaching.

Mirage closed in until Grace’s presence enveloped him in a cocoon of shared energy. Each breath they took blended together.

Grace’s alert could only mean one thing.

There was a greater threat than themselves coming toward them.

Ex and Meridian—the Black Ravens—the first, the elite.

Mirage was able to count the Blacks’ calculated steps, and the closer they got, Grace began to shift their position.

A blur of darkness appeared on Mirage’s right, neither team acknowledging each other.

The whir of another helicopter was looming, and by the time they passed, Mirage was in front of Grace, and Ex and Meridian were behind them.

They’d been activated assassins for five years and had only encountered the Blacks on one unauthorized assignment.

It wasn’t the director who’d sent them. He and Grace had gone after Meridian called them himself for a favor.

It still didn’t make them friends or even acquaintances.

But it did make Meridian owe them one, and Mirage didn’t know if that relieved or concerned him.

Once inside the elevator, Grace released a light exhale, and Mirage moved to his side.

After Grace’s fingerprint was confirmed, he pushed the button for the thirty-eighth floor, and they rode the short distance in silence.

Their penthouse apartments across from each other were their private havens.

They’d installed their own security, and no one—not even Spectre—had access to floor thirty-eight except them.

Just as no one could enter Ex and Meridian’s thirty-ninth floor.

Standing in front of his door, Mirage didn’t turn and face his partner when he whispered, “See you at seventeen hundred for debriefing.”

“Hmm,” was Grace’s response before he closed himself inside his home.