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.
Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail wrapped in leather straps. She wore a sharp dark-gray suit with subtle gold piping on the collar.
Her four loyal assistants followed her like cubs after their mama bear. One carried a large tablet, another held a stack of files, and the other two went straight to the console at the end of the table to cue up the data.
“Let’s begin,” she said.
Black Ravens
Meridian
Mission Preparation: Part II
Jo placed both hands on the edge of the table as the living map went black, then blinked back to life, showing lines of data, names, and scrolling streams of intel.
Meridian reclined in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, studying what was in front of him. Already, he was impressed with how much the Recon department had constructed from the information they’d taken from Graham Graves.
Jo’s voice drew the room in.
“The data the Blacks recovered confirms what we suspected: there were layers of corruption in the original Ravens program. The former director was operating with outside investors, many of them in high-level positions in federal agencies, and also notorious names on the FBI and DEA’s most wanted list.”
