The room was segmented and could be reconfigured on command. Panels could rise for cover, drop into pits, or flatten into open space. Simulated targets lived inside the walls until it was time for them to present as threats.
The weapon racks were stocked with his canes in multiple builds, compact and contracting, weighted and balanced, some with integrated stun inserts and sheathed blades. He also had a buffet of throwing knives and tranquilizer darts. There were cases of sound pellets in sealed capsules that looked harmless until they were stepped on to reveal his enemy’s exact location.
Scar’s side of the room was his stark opposite, unapologetic and lethal. Pistols, rifles, and semiautomatic firearms were organized in long rows beside dozens of labeled ammo cases.
Today, his lead trainers were Grace—a killer of few words—and his partner Mirage.
Zorion was in the booth giving feedback.
Roz operated in the comms unit with Corvo, Spectre, and Cipher, but he’d needed little direction. His good friend had taken to his handler duties like the gangster he was. Killing and slaying every challenge.
In the simulations, Roz’s voice had navigated him through targets and shifting layouts almost flawlessly, calling turns and timing with street-learned discipline.
Their field support observed from the perimeter, absorbing everything and learning how the Whites Division would operate when it was time.
High above, in the main observation booth, Jo stood with her team behind a wall of reinforced glass. Her presence was suffocating and slightly distracting, since he knew she was there to assess whether he was ready to go into the field with the rest of his brothers.
“All right, that’s enough for today.” Jo’s voice carried over the speakers. “Let’s start ’em both on the final phase.”
Gage’s pulse still pounded, sweat cooling at the nape of his neck, his cane warm from overuse.
“Nicely done, brother. We kicked ass,” Roz said.
“We’ll restart at oh eight hundred. You and Scar. Together. Tomorrow.” Grace said roughly on his way past.
Gage nodded and allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief once the room had cleared.
He brushed his fingertips over the hands on his watch. He still had a few hours until nine o’clock.
He had plans tonight with Scar.
His partner had been in Mozambique with the Blacks for a week, running embassy surveillance and shadowing a diplomat’s security detail.
Scar returned home this morning, and tonight would be the first time they’d have time alone again since…since the night they “fought” each other.
He was nervous.
Not of his own awakening, but of how far Scar would want to go tonight.
Gage believed in the covenant of marriage. A vow he’d make in front of God and witnesses before he gave his body to the person he would spend the rest of his life with.
He’d always wanted to give his spouse something no one else had ever touched, something he’d held back out of devotion, to give himself as his gift on his wedding night.
Now his mind was too loud with wanting…and conviction.
He needed a peaceful place where he could go for prayer and reflection. The kind of meditation that required a quiet so deep it felt as if the world had gone mute, leaving only his breath and the certainty of his beliefs.
But he didn’t know where that kind of place was inside of headquarters. He often sought solace in the Olympic-size pool, doing laps, but he wanted stillness with his silence.
Back in his room, he freshened up and changed before he called for Rose.
He sat in his living room with his Braille Bible open on his lap, rereading his favorite scriptures about honoring the body.
He was mid-verse when he heard a knock at his door.
He got up and crossed his living room to let in his assistant, but the scent he caught made him stop short with his hand frozen on the knob.
He’d been expecting Rose, but that wasn’t who was standing in his hall.
