Page 32 of Black and Brown

“Stop peacocking, Mirage,” Spectre chastised. “Grace, you’re a go for green.”

Grace dropped from the ceiling, wielding two suppressed Berettas, his rich brown trench billowing out before falling back into place. Like an angel ascending from the depths of hell. Mirage watched through the scope as his partner approached a terrified Afonso with silent grace.

Grace

Grace scanned the room full of bodies, ignoring the additional shots Mirage continued to fire and the sound of men dying outside.

Afonso’s back was against the wall, scanning for somewhere to run.

What kind of dumbass doesn’t have multiple exits in a safe house?

Afonso’s only way out was past him.

Grace narrowed his eyes, then shook his head in warning.

Deciding to press his luck, Afonso tried to dart past. Grace allowed him to make it a few feet from the threshold, giving him a modicum of hope before he snatched it away.

He didn’t have to look as he fired a single shot behind his back that went through Afonso’s ankle only inches from an artery.

Grace didn’t want him dead…yet. Spectre might have a question or two if they didn’t recover what was needed.

Afonso screamed and hit the ground with a hard thud, his head slamming into the floor.

Grace ignored him. The screams of agony did nothing to him.

He scanned the small hut. It appeared that all the documents he needed—shipping schedules, contacts, ledgers—were all laid out on a dilapidated table.

Grace removed his camera pen—it sent all images directly to their forensics department—and snapped photos of the papers.

“That looks good. We got everything we need,” Spectre confirmed.

Grace removed his woodgrain Zippo from his inside coat pocket and lit the table on fire.

On his way past the cursing crime boss, Grace looked him dead in the eyes and then shot him once in the gut.

The screams of agony were comforting to his lack of a soul.

Crying won’t save you.

Grace watched Afonso writhe on the floor until he became annoyed with the wailing.

“For fuck’s sake, Grace. Shut him up. I’m ready to get out of this damn jungle,” Mirage bitched in his ear.

Grace shot him twice in the chest.

Even if Grace did possess empathy, he wouldn’t feel sorry for a man who’d intimidated and tortured a near desolate, starving community for years.

Grace cleared the threshold before Spectre ordered, “Leave ’em without a trace, Mirage.”

His partner fired rapid rounds from his SAKO, which tore through the structure, sending splinters of wood and shards of glass soaring into the air until there was nothing left of the small hut but rubble.

The vehicles parked outside met a similar fate, their metal frames crumpling or exploding under the barrage of bullets.

Mirage

Mirage sat across from Grace in the Browns’ luxurious helicopter, equipped with everything from a kitchen to a full-size bath and wardrobe.

He stared out the window at the expansive Atlantic Ocean while studying his partner in his peripheral.