Henry pointed to gaps on his list. “You need cyber intelligence and digital forensics. Someone who can work inside criminal networks. Cross-border capability with coverage in Asia-Pacific. Field operatives with European reach. A covert operations planner. And someone coordinating field operations and international liaison.”
Blackjack pulled two chairs to the side of the table, and we both sat.
The hour that followed was a solid intelligence session. Names of possible recruits were offered, examined, confirmed, or set aside.
Blackjack sat beside me and listened more than he spoke, which told me something about how he operated—he gathered information before he deployed.
Cohen Shephard, code name Preacher, had served with the US Defense Intelligence Agency. He was a weapons and technology specialist with cyber expertise and someone Henry had known for years.
Reaper spoke on behalf of Zion Mills, code name Sundance. He was former FBI, who specialized in organized crime networks.
“His sister too,” Reaper added. “Parker Mills. Former CIA. Code name Cassidy. She plans and runs covert operations—threat assessment, mission design, the intelligence preparation that makes an operation possible.”
“Sundance and Cassidy,” I said. “Are you serious?”
Reaper grinned. “Dead serious.”
Blackjack had run ops with Calloway North, code name Nomad. He’d served with Interpol, specialized in cross-border investigations and environmental crimes, and he covered Asia-Pacific—a region nobody else on the roster touched.
Delfino confirmed it. “I’ve also worked with Nomad,” she said. “He’s good.”
“Devereaux Carlisle,” I said. “Code name Agatha. She’s former MI6 with field ops and international liaison experience. She has relationships across every European intelligence service I’ve worked with. She’s the one who gets us in the door withMI6, DGSE, and BND.”
I paused on another name. “There’s also Mallory Felice. Code name Flick. She’s one of the best operatives I’ve ever worked with, but she’s deep undercover right now. We can’t reach her without compromising her cover.”
“When she’s out?” Blackjack asked.
“When she’s out, she’s ours.”
Five names. A sixth for the day her cover ended.
Blackjack stood and walked to the board where his site photographs were pinned. He pulled them down, turned the board over to the clean side, and picked up a marker.
He started writing. Names on the left, capabilities across the top, and lines connecting them. He mapped the divisions to the people, identified where the coverage overlapped, and marked the dependencies—where one division needed another to function. Tactical needed intelligence. Intelligence needed cyber. Cyber needed counterintelligence. Field operations needed both tactical and intelligence. He built the organizational architecture on that board in ten minutes, and when he finished, every person in the room could see how their lane connected to every other lane.
As I watched him do it, I realized that everything I’d assumed about Bishop Black since the day I first met him was wrong. The quiet younger brother who did his job and went unnoticed had never been the full picture. He’d been paying attention the entire time, and now, I could see what he’d built in his head while everyone else assumed he was following orders.
He’d been absorbing everything around him for years—every operation, every organizational structure, every chain of command he’d worked inside—and he’d been building the blueprint in his head long before anyone handed him a marker.
He faced the room. “That’s the machine. Every piece needs every other piece. If one division goes down, the rest compensate. If we add capacity later, it plugs in here, here, and here.” He pointed to three nodes on the board.
“Well done, Blackjack,” said Henry.
“Thanks. There’s one more thing,” Blackjack continued. “I made a call last night, asking for reinforcements. Kade Butler, Gunner Godet, and Tabon Sharp are on their way as we speak.” He glanced at his mobile. “In fact, they’ve arrived.”
5
BLACKJACK
Doc and Gunner came through the ballroom doorway first. Tabon, code name Razor, was right behind them. I was headed their way before they’d gotten five feet.
Three years, I’d worked for these men. Three years of operations, training rotations, and deployments that had given me the first real structure I’d had after leaving the military. Doc had hired me on Kingston’s recommendation and never once treated me like a package deal with my brother. Gunner had run my tactical certification and told me afterward that I was the best he’d seen from the Ranger pipeline in five years. Razor had pulled me into a bar fight in Lisbon that ended with both of us bleeding from the forehead and laughing about it in a cab.
Doc crossed the room and gripped my hand.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
The handshake went longer than either of us would normally allow. He let go first. His eyes moved from my face to the board behind me. “You’ve been busy.” He gripped my shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
