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 had always been attracted to capable men, and Mirage had capability in fucking spades.
But those feelings no longer stirred in Grace’s gut as they would have years ago.
Sometimes, he wondered why that part of him had to be deadened. Making him experience such amplified rage and aggression without a way to let it out was a recipe for disaster.
So, yes. He was very angry.
Training all day for months was no longer satisfying Grace’s urge to kill.
Holograms of terrorists didn’t compare to putting a bullet in the real thing.
Every day, he read about violent crimes being committed against his country and its citizens. Wrongs that the Ravens promised he’d be able to make right.
Fucking when?
Mirage pressed his chest against Grace’s back and removed his ear protection.
“Turn and look at me so I can see why.”
Grace wished he could see into Mirage’s mind and hear the internal dialogue that appeared to never turn off.
Grace did as his partner asked and gazed down into blue-gray eyes full of wisdom and insight, relaying without words the burning searing his core.
Mirage didn’t speak for a long time as he held eye contact. Mirage moved closer, appearing to take in every detail of Grace’s facial features, his gaze piercing his soul.
There was something warm in those uniquely angled eyes. A compassion that shouldn’t be there but was.
Grace didn’t blink. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to miss a second of those unique-colored irises dilatating and constricting.
How does he do this? Is his mind so complex that the drugs didn’t take?
“Soon, Grace. When it’s least expected, the Ravens will unleash you on the world.”
The gentleness of Mirage’s voice never failed to lull Grace toward serenity.
“And God help the man who encounters your rage.”
The compliment was unexpected and cooled the fire burning inside Grace’s chest.
He thought he saw a smile tugging at the corner of Mirage’s lips, but before he could be sure, his expression shifted into a stoic mask.
“I’m going to bed. Get some rest, Grace. We need to stay sharp.”
Mirage left the shooting range, taking the comfort of his voice and the smell of cool cotton with him.
Mirage
It’d been another seven weeks of gruesomeness, and Mirage thought Grace was about to come apart at the seams.
Perhaps Spectre or one of the higher-ups had also noticed Grace’s shift in demeanor because, at six thirty in the morning, the director made a rare appearance on the balcony while Mirage was finishing his poached eggs.
“You don’t seem the type who dines in cafeterias, Mr. Director,” Mirage said without glancing in his direction. “To what do we owe the unwanted interruption?”
Mirage knew he voiced Grace’s sentiments as well because of his partner’s scowl and the way he threw aside his New York Times.
“I’ve received stellar reports on your training progress, and I think you gentlemen deserve a couple of days to rest and recoup.” The director glanced over the railing. “You’ve been inside a long time… You’re not prisoners, y’know.”
Grace glared at the director’s back before throwing Mirage a look that showed disapproval…and caution.
The director stared up at the sky from behind a pair of Versace shades. “Enjoy the day. You’ve earned it. Your driver will be in the garage when you’re ready to go.”
Mirage didn’t like the surprise, and it appeared Grace didn’t either. But perhaps a day out of the building after a year and a half was a good idea.
“Just remember to wear your hoods. They’re required whether in or out of headquarters,” the director instructed before he left.
Grace
Grace stared out the window of the blacked-out Suburban while Mirage’s gaze bounced from the driver, who they’d often seen in the observation booth during their training times, to the stoic man in the passenger seat.
Grace stared at Mirage long enough to convey, Why is he here?
Mirage flexed his wrists, and Grace saw the glint of metal from his blades.
He eased one side of his trench—designed specifically for him—to show Mirage a glimpse of his MultiFlex holster concealing four handguns.
Two Berettas and two .45 Magnums.
Maybe the passenger was a guard.
After all, he and Mirage were a high commodity. The agency had invested considerable assets into developing its new weapons.
No one was supposed to know they existed, but the Ravens didn’t appear to be an organization without contingency plans for the unexpected.
He and Mirage chose to leave in the evening, preferring to enjoy the night ambiance rather than the broad daylight.
Grace wore a grim expression when the driver stopped in front of a high-end restaurant.
The passenger glanced in the mirror and told them to enjoy their meal.
Grace scoped out the entrance to Terrapas fine-dining restaurant on the first floor of a thirty-story building before he got out.
Mirage met him on the other side of the SUV, both of them scanning the street and sidewalks.
“I guess the director was being honest,” Mirage said before he followed some men in business suits into the waiting area. “I hope they have good seafood options.”