He knew his justification for loathing Gage was warranted. If he hadn’t been tucked under Roz’s protection, he would’ve taken the pretty man and wrecked him long ago… after he enjoyed him.
He hoped a cow had trampled him, or the farm owner found him trespassing and shot him in his dumb ass.
A couple of hours later, the overhead system announced his boarding.
He tugged his beanie lower, pulled the sweatshirt’s hood up over it, and kept his eyes on the stained floor as he made his way toward the parking lot.
He made a quick stop at the coffee stand, hoping the pastries weren’t too old and it was early enough for the coffee to be fresh.
With his cup of Joe and two blueberry muffins, he took a seat at the rear of the bus where the restroom was close and the driver couldn’t meet his eyes.
The dark brew felt good going down, black, bitter, and hot enough to burn away his thoughts of Gage.
The bus was a quarter full, but that would probably change with the hundreds of stops it’d make along the way.
On the fourth hour of the trip, he tried to sleep, but his brain said no.
He reclined the seat, stared at the bright clouds, counted the telephone poles, and cataloged the sounds around him.
The sputter of the engine when the accelerator was pressed, the loose hum in the heating panel, the giggle of a woman two rows up as she read her book, the driver clearing his throat every eight to ten minutes.
Outside, the country unrolled, state by agonizingly slow state.
Billboards for legal representation, signs where to buy fireworks, and advertisements for the best steakhouse, ribs, crab cakes, or buffets in town took turns at each mile.
Scar caught his reflection in the window and stared into his own eyes, which were a lighter color than they’d been six months ago.
I made it this far. I’ve done more with a lot less. If the Ravens killed me and took my identity, fine. I’ll come up with a new one.
He pictured his South Side block and what it might look like now.
The boys who’d matured into men by making their first kill. The familiar faces who would still be there and the disappearance of the ones who’d become victims to the violence they lived and were now ghosts.
He contemplated what kind of welcome he’d receive…and the tests that was sure to follow.
He replayed his speech as to why he wasn’t rotting away in a jail cell until his eyelids got heavy.
The coffee was long gone and so were his muffins.
He tugged his hood down to the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and did his best to let the road lull him to sleep.
Black Ravens
Meridian
Mission Preparation: Part I
The shower had rinsed away the last streaks of blood and sweat from the mission, now replaced with the memory of Ex’s body beneath his—submissive, pleading, and perfect.
Meridian pulled on his cashmere sweater, black and soft, with a sharp V exposing just enough skin to make Ex’s stare falter when he’d come out of the room.
Midnight Gucci boots and tailored black slacks completed his ensemble for the night. No weapons were visible, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have any on him.
They walked down the corridor together, flanked by their seven personal assistants—all of them capable and efficient.
“Meridian, trench numbers one through four have been decommissioned. Wardrobe wants to discuss a new prototype before the next deployment,” Mariah said. She was the assistant in charge of their equipment. “And, Ex, ballistics says the scope on the M10 rifle is being recoded. They documented the sensors are showing a point five percent decline in accuracy.”
Neither he nor Ex responded. It was their assistants’ jobs to inform and execute, not create discussions, so he often let their voices meld into background noise.
