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)
Grace jerked his head toward Tiffany, and she almost dropped her clipboard.
When Grace was done staring at her from under his hood, he turned and glanced at Mirage, then shook his head.
“Jo, Tiffany, never come into our apartments, ever. We keep our own homes,” Mirage told her. “Matter of fact, no one comes to our personal floor…ever. We don’t care if it’s on fire…don’t come up.”
Tiff cleared her throat. “O-of course. Whatever you want, Grace, um, Mr. Grace…fuck, I meant, um…”
Most of the team—primarily the women—chuckled behind their fists as Tiffany turned beet red.
“Grace is fine, Tiffany, thank you.” Spectre stood and eyed the dozens of faces, saving Tiffany from further embarrassment.
“Thanks for staying up so late, and thanks for the introductions. We look forward to working with all of you.”
Their handler stared at each member of the team.
“But if any of you fuck up, even once…you’re gone. Is that understood?”
No one spoke or moved, but glances bounced around the room as if people were wondering who’d be the first of their colleagues to get canned and kicked out of the Ravens organization.
They’d probably be forced to live in seclusion from the rest of the world on the Pitcairn Islands.
Spectre picked up the receiver of a red phone in the center of the table.
“Handler B289 to Control. Browns’ mission successful. Set status to Code 4 ready,” their handler muttered, then replaced the receiver in the cradle.
A computerized voice came over an intercom that sounded as if it was alerting the entire building.
“Second generation activated. Browns are a go for Force Protection Level (FPL) Bravo.”
The team erupted in a round of cheers and high-fives.
Mirage pfft’d under his breath.
Grace did an about-face and walked out the door, leaving the team members to celebrate.
Mirage followed, this time at his side.
“They look like a capable bunch,” he said, then pushed the elevator button for their floor.
Once inside the small compartment, Grace turned and stared down at him. He spoke in a voice that was as dark as his eyes, his words rough and grating.
“We’ll see.”
Grace’s tone was hotter than a blue flame. One that sent heat streaking down Mirage’s spine.
Mirage
Five years later
Valdivian Rainforest
La Araucaria Region, Chile
South America
“I have movement. Multiple vehicles approaching.”
“Confirm target.”
Seconds of silence went by that turned into minutes.
“Confirm. Target,” Grace repeated.
Mirage chuckled under his breath.
“Adding bass in your voice won’t make the confirmation come any faster.”
“Spectre,” Grace growled.
“I understand you’ve been in that ceiling for four hours, but if you can’t withstand extreme boredom, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong line of work,” Mirage answered dryly through the comms.
Mirage was six hundred yards away, perched on a rain-slick branch, eighty feet above the forest floor. His camouflage fatigues helped him blend into the damp vines and moss of an evergreen tree.
His eye was an inch away from the scope of his SAKO sniper rifle. He kept his finger poised over the trigger and his left hand clutching the stock.
It hadn’t been easy to get into position with the almost four-foot-long weapon. The mono and bipod were braced on two branches while he sat nestled in a semi-enclosed cavity, with an angry male baboon watching him from a few limbs over.
As long as it didn’t move, he was safe. But Mirage kept his bowie knife unsheathed and resting on his thigh. If the baboon shifted to strike, Mirage would remove its head, let the body drop to the ground, and return to his position without a second thought.
The intense humidity made sweat drip down his temples and beneath the high collar of his camouflage jacket.
Grace growled harder, sending a warm vibration through Mirage’s ear canal and down his damp throat.
He could imagine Spectre rolling his dark eyes at Grace’s bitching.
“The convoy stopped, but no further activity. Awaiting visual. Stand. Fuckin’. By. Grace.”
Mirage tried soothing his partner’s impatience.
“You’re lucky you’re inside, Grace. This goddamn primate’s been eyeing me the entire time. I think I’m starting to look like a worthy challenge.”
With his cheek pressed to the cool metal, the scent of animal musk and swamp water made him long for this mission to be over.
The three hundred and sixty minutes he’d been separated from Grace was beyond excruciating.
It wasn’t the first time they’d had to deviate from their back-to-chest battle position, but when they did, it hurt badly.
It’d taken their intel department four months of recon to discover the leader of the Crimson Crime Syndicate’s secluded safe house. And just as long for their shadow division to devise a covert plan to take out the SOB.
A long-range shooter and close-contact attack would be the best option to make this mission successful.
The leader of this ruthless rebel force was known only as Afonso. His organization was violent in the ways they instilled fear in the inhabitants of the poverty-stricken Chilean commune in Arauco.
The Browns had been called in after multiple aid imports to the surrounding countries were hijacked.