Page 108 of Black and Brown

Brad was already gone. Ex had already relieved the guard of his duty.

Their deceitful boss turned and froze.

The atmosphere crackled with tension as they formed a half circle around his desk.

“I told you I’d make you fall to your knees and beg for death.” Each of Meridian’s words dripped with icy menace.

The director began to sweat.

“Fellas, you’re about to make a huge mistake here. I don’t know what you’re looking for. No one here sabotaged your mission. You botched the job in Germany yourselves.” He scowled, trying to add some bass to his voice as if he wasn’t scared shitless.

“We know why Zelmir was targeted. We know of the Green Ravens.” Meridian sounded too calm. “I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth before I honor my promise.”

Mirage reached behind his back, ready to throw his blunt wood daggers.

“Who and where are the remaining Ravens?”

“It’s best if you answer quickly…he’s out of patience,” Ex offered.

The director’s eyes blew wide a second before he dove for his phone.

Mirage threw the nine-inch wooden stakes at the director’s hand. The loud cracks that followed sounded like he’d broken at least three or four knuckles.

He hollered out, tears welling as he dropped the receiver.

“Please…I have a wife. She needs me,” he pleaded, clutching his hand.

Mirage rolled his eyes. “Your wife’s been seeing another man for two years…I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

The director became incensed. “There are no other Ravens, dammit!”

“If you insist.” Meridian shrugged.

The director reached beneath his desk—where he probably stored a weapon—but not fast enough. Grace drew a dart gun and shot a syringe into the director’s chest.

The poison was potent enough to cause excruciating pain the moment it entered the bloodstream.

Meridian sat in one of the high-back chairs opposite the director’s desk and began consuming the rest of the director’s drink.

Meridian sighed and lit one of his black-and-gold cigarettes.

“Mmm, man, that’s fuckin’ delicious. What is this, John? A forty, fifty-year-aged whisky? What’d that cost you…about six thousand?”

Mirage barely withheld his shock and rage.

Motherfucker.

“Business must be good,” Meridian continued.

The director groaned as ferocious, all-consuming pain mercilessly worked its way through his nervous system.

Meridian crossed his legs and took another sip.

“John, you’ve just been shot with a lethal dose of cyanide. As the poison works through your body, it’ll make every muscle inside you spasm and contract at the same time.” Meridian took a long inhale, then leaned forward and blew the sweet aroma of cedar and nutmeg into the director’s face. “But lucky for me…it doesn’t affect the brain in a way that you can’t think or speak.”

The director fell out of his chair.

“Please,” he wept, his limbs twitching uncontrollably.