Page 22 of Black and Brown

The director stared up at the sky from behind a pair of Versace shades. “Enjoy the day. You’ve earned it. Your driver will be in the garage when you’re ready to go.”

Mirage didn’t like the surprise, and it appeared Grace didn’t either. But perhaps a day out of the building after a year and a half was a good idea.

“Just remember to wear your hoods. They’re required whether in or out of headquarters,” the director instructed before he left.

Grace

Grace stared out the window of the blacked-out Suburban while Mirage’s gaze bounced from the driver, who they’d often seen in the observation booth during their training times, to the stoic man in the passenger seat.

Grace stared at Mirage long enough to convey, Why is he here?

Mirage flexed his wrists, and Grace saw the glint of metal from his blades.

He eased one side of his trench—designed specifically for him—to show Mirage a glimpse of his MultiFlex holster concealing four handguns.

Two Berettas and two .45 Magnums.

Maybe the passenger was a guard.

After all, he and Mirage were a high commodity. The agency had invested considerable assets into developing its new weapons.

No one was supposed to know they existed, but the Ravens didn’t appear to be an organization without contingency plans for the unexpected.

He and Mirage chose to leave in the evening, preferring to enjoy the night ambiance rather than the broad daylight.

Grace wore a grim expression when the driver stopped in front of a high-end restaurant.

The passenger glanced in the mirror and told them to enjoy their meal.

Grace scoped out the entrance to Terrapas fine-dining restaurant on the first floor of a thirty-story building before he got out.

Mirage met him on the other side of the SUV, both of them scanning the street and sidewalks.

“I guess the director was being honest,” Mirage said before he followed some men in business suits into the waiting area. “I hope they have good seafood options.”

He and Mirage were dressed decently in their umber-brown slacks and collared shirts.

Mirage wore a custom-fitted blazer suit coat with an oversized cashmere hood, and Grace wore a new knee-length Kevlar-lined almond-shade trench.

It probably seemed odd for them not to remove their hoods once seated in the dimly lit restaurant, but few glanced in their direction since they were so far removed from the main dining room.

The tablecloths were stark white, with two five-piece place settings positioned on top.

A polite lady with a smile as brilliant as the tablecloths gave them a slight nod before she filled their water glasses and left.

Another woman approached shortly after. She was older and well-toned.

The first thing Grace noticed was that she didn’t crack a smile when she handed them the hardcover menus and then walked away without welcoming them or even informing them of the evening’s specials.

Grace’s temple pulsed.

Something’s not right, he relayed to Mirage.

They both moved to get up, but a Black man with rich brown skin, waist-long dreadlocks, and an obvious bulge on his hip blocked their path.

He glared at them hard enough to frighten an undisciplined man, then displayed a phony smile.

“Gentlemen, I strongly recommend the tuna tartare. It’s delicious enough to kill for.”