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 scowled at Mirage from over his shoulder.
“I know,” he replied to Grace’s unspoken question.
“Miss, where the fuck are we going?”
When she didn’t answer, he was about to throw a blade past the side of her face, but she stepped aside and gestured to the oak doors of a large conference room.
Thirty or so people of all ages and sizes stood when they entered. There was a myriad of expressions around the room, from awe to curiosity, then admiration, while others cast their gazes toward the floor.
The first voice Mirage recognized was Spectre’s, then the director’s.
“Browns, meet your team.” The director cleared his throat. “And, Mirage, will you please show yourself.”
He stepped from behind Grace, sending a wave of surprise rippling through the room.
His sudden appearance out of thin air must have caught most of them off-guard.
Some looked anxious, while others seemed captivated by how he’d melded so deep into Grace’s shadow until he disappeared.
A large screen covering most of the wall was paused on a still shot of them getting into the SUV behind Terrapas an hour ago.
As if their “team” had been watching an assassin reality show starring them.
Mirage was surprised there was no popcorn and Jujyfruits on the table.
“You two have a seat and allow everyone to introduce themselves.”
The tension in the room shifted to a slight degree of relaxation as the “team” began to pull out their seats at the table while others sat in chairs lining the room.
Grace didn’t move, and neither did he, continuing to stand rigidly just inside the door.
The team stopped midmotion and shoved their chairs back under the table, and the ones who’d already sat leapt from their seats as if they’d sat on a needle.
“Okay.” The director coughed. “We’ll all stand.”
“Let’s make quick introductions of the department leaders and save the rest for a more suitable hour,” Spectre said to the director. “I’m sure Grace and Mirage are ready to go to their apartments to settle their minds.”
Spectre sat down, and Mirage noticed his hair was draped over his shoulders and not in his usual man bun.
He had on a pair of wrinkled lounge pants, a tank top, and a cotton robe as if he’d been yanked out of bed.
Yep, he’d been thrust into the mission as well.
“I’m sure you’re right.” The director flipped through a binder and began to point out certain men and women, starting with the ones closest to him.
“Grace and Mirage, as you already know, your go-to will be your handler, Spectre, and beside him is Paul, your management operator.”
Paul raised his hand, but when he wasn’t acknowledged, he put it down.
Anyone introduced after that gave a simple nod.
“Chris and Anthony head up your intel unit. Virginia, Ken, and Sullivan—we call him Skeet—lead the shadow division. They’re experts in covert and stealth tactics. The ten men in the corner are your ballistics, bladesmiths, and gunsmith experts.”
No one could see Mirage’s raised brow under his hood, but he thought it was beyond cool that they had their own weapon makers.
“Yuan Yun leads your tech division.”
The director pointed to a group of people wearing work coveralls with grease smudges—or was that oil?—on their face and hands.
“Cormac, Lauren, Julie, Doug, and Noah are the managers of the engineering department. And the serious-faced people over there in the white lab coats are the chief physicians on your medical team. You probably recognize a few of them.”
Spectre yawned. “Wrap this up, John. We have our entire lives to get familiar with everyone.”
Hmm, the director’s name is John.
Mirage liked Mr. Overdressed and Mr. Too Expensive Goddamn Suit better.
And yeah, wrap it up.
His bed was screaming his name, and annoyance was rolling off Grace so hard it made Mirage’s teeth clench to stop himself from yelling at the director on his partner’s behalf.
“Okay, got it,” the director acknowledged. “Just about done.”
“The trio in the eclectic clothing with pens and pencils littering their hair are Elio, Calla, and Waylen. They’re in charge of the design team. Your field wardrobe and any personal clothes you’d like. If you want them to make a—”
“I design all your trench coats, Grace, including the one you’re wearing now.” Elio gave a provocative wink, flashing a seductive and inviting smile.
Mirage was tempted to throw a blade into that fucking eye.
“I’ve warned you once, Elio.” Spectre glared.
The director faced the serious-looking woman in the pinstripes. Beside her was a petite lady who couldn’t be more than five feet tall. She wore black-rimmed cat-eye glasses and clutched a clipboard to her chest.
“Last, this is our administrative director. She has her eyes and ears on just about everything.” The director squinted. “She came to us from the CIA, and I don’t think anyone here knows her government name, so we just call her Jo.”
“She’s your personal assistant, and Ms. Tiffany beside her is in charge of hospitality and housekeeping.”