Page 38 of Black and Brown

“And don’t ever call him buddy again, Hank, or it’ll be the last word you say.”

Spectre chuckled. “Well, on that note, I think the debriefing is over.”

Grace didn’t wait to be dismissed.

He went to the glass door and yanked it open but didn’t cross the threshold until he felt Mirage’s breath on the back of his neck.

Mirage

When they were back in the elevator, Mirage stopped Grace from pushing the button to their floor.

“You haven’t eaten yet. I bet you went straight to your shower, had a drink, and then went to bed,” he said matter-of-factly, pressing the button for the garage.

“Let’s go to Terrapas. I think it’s time for a bit of spoiling, don’t you?”

Grace nodded in agreement. The five-star restaurant was his favorite, and it was their place.

On the way down, Mirage pushed a code for their transport coordinator on his fancy watch connected to his silicone earpiece. “Have the truck brought around.”

Mirage tapped the button again to go silent.

The high-tech communicator melded to the rim of their inner ear and was undetectable by sight or scanner.

It was a gift to the Ravens’ operation from a law enforcement task force in Atlanta that interacted with Ex and Meridian.

And that was all any of them were permitted to know.

Neither he nor Grace knew who had designed the Hart locator device. They were only available to those whom the maker sent them.

And the engineer had sent six, one for each Raven and one for each handler.

Inside their bulletproof Suburban, neither of them spoke during the forty-five-minute drive to the restaurant.

When they walked through the doors, hoods lowered, the hostess acknowledged them right away and waved them toward their table.

He and Grace bypassed the other waiting, pinched-faced customers and were led to their secluded table, which they paid a substantial amount of money to remain unused. It was curtained off in the back of the dining room, closest to the exit where their vehicle waited.

The weapons they had stashed beneath the booth and table were the only way they’d feel comfortable dining in such a public environment.

After they settled into the curved booth, the maître d’ came to the table along with the chef.

He was a tall, gray-haired man who wore an unstained white jacket and pressed black pants.

He nodded and presented them with a piece of embellished card stock that described the eight-course meal for the evening.

Neither the chef nor the house manager spoke as they waited for Grace to approve the selections.

After they wiped their hands with the hot cloth, the chef signaled for the server to bring the amuse-bouche.

Mirage set his napkin in his lap, then began to eat the goat cheese–topped polenta cakes.

His palate thanked him.

They didn’t often dine in such a lavish manner. On a mission, they had to eat what was convenient and portable. They’d sure as hell had their share of disgusting MREs, freeze-dried fruits, canned meats, and sometimes what they could catch and cook over an open flame.

By the third course, Mirage was curious why Grace’s smoky gaze was fixated on his mouth with each bite he took.

The wine sat untouched, both of them choosing to drink water instead.