Page 58

Grace

When they landed, the Blacks’ sleek charcoal and silver helicopter was already on its helipad, their team still unloading their cargo.

Spectre was there waiting for them—which was uncommon—with their management director and acute trauma physician, Dr. Martin.

He and Mirage pulled their hoods low and descended the stairs to the platform.

Before they could make it to the leaders of their team, two members of ballistics hollered from the helicopter’s raised cargo doors.

“Hey! Grace, where the hell is the Delta?”

Fuck off. And fuck that rifle.

“We don’t see it! Come on, man!”

Ignoring them, he and Mirage met the next barricade blocking them from getting to the elevator to their condos.

“Okay, let’s play a little game of I Spy,” Spectre growled.

He didn’t even ask if they were okay first or acknowledge the gashes in his thighs or Mirage’s subtle limp from Omega’s strikes.

“I spy two motherfuckers who outmatched four of the best assassins in the world and stole their goddamn targets. Not only one, but both of them! So tell me. Who the fuckin’ fuck am I talking about?”

Warmth spread up Grace’s cheeks to his forehead.

Neither of them answered. Grace wasn’t inclined to respond at all. Instead, he scowled down at Mirage.

Mirage didn’t turn away from Grace’s glare as he spoke. “Give us the night, Spectre. We’ll debrief tomorrow at thirteen hundred.”

Grace started walking as Mirage fell in step behind him.

“Hold on! No way in hell is the director gonna wait that long for answers,” Spectre yelled at their backs.

Spectre must’ve grabbed Mirage’s shoulder or upper arm because Grace felt his partner’s detachment from his right side. The instant loss ricocheted through him, hurting like no other pain in the world, causing his steely composure to shatter.

How dare he touch Mirage? It was the same as touching him.

Enhanced adrenaline flooded and burned through Grace’s veins, and like a coiled spring being released, he reacted.

Grace pivoted on one heel, threw his arm over Mirage’s shoulder, tucking his upper half under his arm, and landed a powerful blow into Spectre’s shoulder at the same time.

The impact was brutal. The sound of the dislocation slicing through the air was a painful testament to Grace’s ruthless, unforgiving nature.

Their handler must’ve forgotten what their organization had created.

Spectre let out a sharp cry. His face contorted into shock and a hint of anger as his right arm hung limply at his side.

Grace’s dispensing of punishment was swift and merciful because of who Spectre was. Anyone else would’ve been permanently injured…or dead.

But if Spectre ever touched Mirage out of anger again, Grace would throw him out the nearest window. And the last sounds they’d hear from Spectre would be the screams of him plummeting hundreds of feet to his death.