Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
They were a few feet from the double doors of the Command Center—also called the War Room—when Marius, his lead combat wardrobe specialist, jogged up to him. His signature platinum hair was spiked in every direction, and he was wearing an eclectic black sequin top, and denim bell-bottoms.
“Meridian,” he huffed, out of breath, falling into step at his other side. “I wanted to show you the new trench design before the meeting.”
He had a laptop balanced on his forearm as he turned the screen toward him.
It showed a sleek mockup of a calf-length black suede coat. It had the same features as the others, but it would be lighter than leather. The armor panels were thinner and overlapped to provide an additional layer of protection.
“It’s reinforced with graphene-laminate.” Marius grinned. “More flexibility and higher ballistic tolerance. We just need you to come in for updated measurements.”
Meridian looked over the mockup. It was functional but elegant and sexy. Almost perfect.
But he didn’t do almost.
He pointed to the collar design. “Make it higher and reinforce it. I want more coverage on my throat.”
Marius blinked. “That might restrict—”
“Do it. And widen the front flaps. I want to be able to shield Ex when I pull it to the back, not just the front.”
Marius hesitated again. “But that will make it more front-heavy. It could create difficulty in balance and—”
Meridian stopped walking and turned to glare down at his designer.
Marius swallowed. “I’ll take care of it.” He backed away and disappeared down the opposite hall.
Ex tilted his mouth into an almost smile. “You really know how to inspire your staff.”
“I inspire results,” he said flatly.
When they reached the doors of the War Room, two guards in black nondescript suits, with coms pieces wrapped around their ears, straightened and punched in a code on the access panel that made the doors slide open.
The room was a cathedral built for strategy. The air buzzed with low conversations and machine noise.
The oval table in the center was the size of a small ballroom dance floor, and its surface was currently projecting a holographic map of Chicago. Around it were rows of chairs, each section color-coded by teams.
The Greens, Valor and Zorion, were already there. Clean and sharp in matching tactical green, reminiscent of their military days. The rest of their team—their handler Cipher and their eleven lead field operatives, all dressed in moss and hunter green tones—sat behind them.
Zorion’s gaze was sharp and roaming. Valor lounged beside him, posture deceptively loose but coiled underneath. They always looked as if they’d just walked out of the forest that’d tried and failed to kill them.
He and Ex took their seats in the section reserved for the Blacks. Corvo was already there, reviewing something on his tablet, and their own team was in a tight huddle having an intense dispute.
He didn’t care what it was about.
Meridian gestured to one of his assistants. “Cognac.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man hurried away.
Moments later, the doors opened and Grace strode in, all broad shoulders and smooth motions. His imposing, silent presence drew the eyes of everyone in the room.
He wore a chestnut-brown suede peacoat open over a cream Henley and tan slacks. The kind of casual attire that cost more than most people’s rent.
When he turned toward their section, his partner, Mirage, appeared as if conjured from his shadow. Silent, fluid, face half-hidden beneath his hood. Smaller, but sharper and faster.
Where Grace was sunset and whiskey, Mirage was storm clouds in moonlight.
They took their places in the Brown’s section with their handler, Spectre, and a vast team of nineteen lead field operatives.
When they sat down, Grace immediately leaned into Mirage’s side, his lips barely moving, before Mirage spoke for both of them.
“We’re set.”
Their assistants slipped drinks onto the table: Grace’s amber liquid in a lowball glass and Mirage’s bottle of Perrier.
Meridian sipped his own drink, then removed his cigarette case from his inside breast pocket.
Valor held his hand up and Meridian tossed the case and lighter over the table. Valor lit his smoke and offered the case to Grace, who gave him a look of absolute absurdity.
A few team members were chuckling at their unique camaraderie when the doors hissed open and their director walked in.
“Valor, Meridian, unless you want them shoved down your throat, put those stinking cigarettes out. It’s gonna’ be a long meeting, and I’m not interested in inhaling secondhand smoke the whole time.”
Jo glared for a couple of seconds before he and Valor stubbed their cigarettes out with resigned sighs.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
While they may have been world-feared killers, Jo was the reason the Ravens still existed and operated with a moral code, so they gave her the respect she’d earned.
Meridian would never say it aloud, but he was sometimes in awe of her.
She was the sleek panther of the Order of Aga Khan, a brilliant strategist and martial arts expert trained in the ways of the old masters.