The Greens and Browns were already waiting with their teams, suited, with hoods up, and weapons boxed.
Valor stood, solid and unshakable, like a mountain, in forest-green fatigues, heavy gauntlets clasped around his forearms, and wearing knuckle guards that extended into two-inch claws.
Zorion looked intense and focused, like the hawk that lurked inside him. His aerodynamic suit—that unfurled into flight configuration when triggered—was a green that would blend into the landscape. His wrists and fingers were taped for stability and torque to control his Cobra compound bow.
Grace was still and quiet, standing sentinel in a rusty-brown armor-plated trench that stopped at his shins. His shadow, Mirage, was tucked tight behind him, already in their fight stance—two bodies creating one super-being.
The Blacks’ elevator began to descend, and no one spoke as they watched the floor numbers illuminate until it opened on their floor.
Meridian stepped out first, and the air changed with his every step. Stifling and predatory.
He didn’t rush, never did, as if the world operated at his pace.
He wore black gear that looked like a designer suit built for war. His overcoat was sleek black onyx, with a high collar, andwoven through with Armox steel plates, strong enough to stop high-velocity rifle rounds.
Ex walked at his right shoulder with the same level of calm fierceness.
In response to Meridian’s presence, the command PA clicked on overhead.
“All tactical mission divisions ready. Launch full Raven mobilization. Field code: Black Reaper Active. Airlift priority one.”
The long hallway beyond the concourse leading to the helipad was lined with nonessential personnel.
Scar expected stoic faces, lazy salutes, or simple waves goodbye, but he was surprised when they all began clapping and cheering them on.
People shouted encouragement, battle wishes, and some prayed in small huddles.
Scar wanted to take Gage’s hand so badly it made his fingers ache. But he couldn’t turn his mind away from the battle.
The man walking beside him now wasn’t just his husband, it was The Saint—the righteous, angel-warrior.
Heaven help anyone standing on the wrong side of good tonight.
White Ravens
Gage
The Ravens jet ate up the sky, flying at a speed of nearly seven hundred miles per hour. Every minute in the air was a minute the hostages lost.
So far, there’d been no government mobilization by Montenegro or a response from local law enforcement.
While in transit, the Shadow Division’s breach-and-entry unit designed the penetration points, while Command and Strategy coordinated the takedown sequence.
They’d been briefed once and once was enough.
Gage’s directions were clear.
Locate, isolate, and shield the hostages until his brothers dismantled every cell of the militia and the field transport moved in for extraction.
Radio static hissed once they were in position.
“Comms check,” Corvo said, taking lead handler. “All divisions, roll call.”
“Black,” Meridian and Ex answered at the same time.
“Brown,” Mirage said. Grace followed with a double-click on the channel.
“Green,” Valor rumbled. “Green check,” Zorion added.
