Gage understood.
He was the only person who knew about the strict religious life he’d been raised in. The only one who’d understood his curiosity to indulge in rebellion every now and then, and the desperation he felt not to be perfect all the time.
If Gage didn’t tell Roz the truth—or something close to it—he’d lose his trust. Their entire relationship was built on honesty. And it wasn’t one-sided. He also knew the side of Rozthat the Hustlers never got to see…couldn’t see without judging him.
He bowed his head and whispered, “I’ll tell you.”
“Good. Let’s go inside. I think I’mma’ need a drink to hear whatever the hell this story is.”
Black Ravens
Meridian
Meridian sat loosely in his leather seat as his stealth hawk helicopter ate up miles of wintry Chicago sky.
The pilot began to drop below the gray smear of clouds, low enough for him to see the snow-dusted rooftops.
Across from him, Ex was rolling a .50 caliber bullet back and forth across his knuckles, looking bored as hell.
Beside him, Grace sat like carved stone, with one brown, snakeskin boot resting over his opposite knee. Mirage occupied the space at his partner’s side, hood up, knee touching Grace’s.
Every now and then, Grace tipped his head in Mirage’s direction, his lips barely moving in some form of hushed communication.
Behind the four of them, their joint field teams filled the bay, double-checking gear and readying weapons and coms devices.
“All right, brothers,” Meridian said, his voice low and a little annoyed. “Let’s not waste too much time on this.”
All eyes were on him.
“We’ve got real situations on the board,” he counted off. “Arms routes to shut down, insurgent cells, trafficking syndicates, world threats that actually fuckin’ matter.”
Grace nodded.
“But we can’t move on any of it until we drag the Whites outta whatever hole they’re hiding in and teach them which way to point their rage. So this”—he flicked two fingers toward the Chicago South Side grid on the large flatscreen—“needs to be quick and mean.”
Rory’s voice was crystal clear through their Hart Communicator comms pieces.
“Intel confirms this chapter of the South Side Kings has been running fentanyl, meth, and guns. They’re associated with over a dozen shootings that’s resulted in multiple deaths, including nineteen bystanders and six minors—terrorizing their own neighborhood.”
A group photo of men and women in black and red with bandannas covering half their faces, pointing their handguns and rifles toward the sky, flashed across their screen.
It looked like a senior class picture where everyone was voted most likely not to graduate and become a criminal.
“I don’t need you guys to clean up their city.” Jo’s cool voice cut in, riding the channel from headquarters. “Just bring me Scar as ordered.”
“So we’re not allowed to have any fun,” Ex muttered. “We’re owed something for this inconvenience.”
“You’re allowed to send a disciplined, tactful message,” Jo stressed. “But not so loud that it draws a SWAT team and hostage negotiator. No police scanners lighting up.’”
“Understood,” Mirage said in a dry tone.
“We go in, ask a few polite questions,” Meridian smirked. “If we get answers, they keep breathing. If we don’t…”
No one needed him to finish that.
“Touching down in the designated landing zone in thirty seconds,” their pilot said.
Meridian stood and shrugged into his new trench, adjusting to the weight of the graphene-laminate panels and the high reinforced collar around his throat.
