Page 64 of Black and Brown

“I’ve got movement,” Mirage whispered.

“Awaiting confirmation of target.”

“Standby,” Mirage responded.

Spectre would still be in the strategy room with his eyes narrowed on the satellite feed, but their handler being delayed fifteen minutes was a huge handicap.

Mirage could see the twelve men loading into the four unmarked vans, but Grace wouldn’t move or take aim until Mirage gave him a solid green on Woyashi and Zelmir Benton.

“Targets confirmed. Vehicle three, rear seat, driver and passenger side.”

“Roger that,” Grace gritted.

Mirage did several more calculations, stored them in his mind, then acknowledged, “Shooter, you are green.”

“Roger, confirmations on ready.”

Mirage set up Grace’s history-making shot.

“Shot is four, eight, four, four.” Mirage took a three-second pause, then added, “Winds two-half value, nine degrees descending.”

“Adjustments.”

“Negative adjustments.”

“Hold scope.” Grace’s voice reverberated with unwavering focus.

“Spotter holding and standing by.”

Grace eased his finger over the trigger. He took a slow inhale and prepared to fire a shot that would make him a hero until a blur flew past Mirage on his right side, a second before a rib-bruising kick sent him flying across the room.

Mirage

Grace reacted immediately and rolled with Mirage as he slammed into the concrete wall.

Grace skidded to a halt in front of him and threw one side of his armored trench up in time to prevent the six Chinese stars slicing through the air from embedding in their chests.

“Spectre, we’ve been ambushed,” Mirage ground out.

The attacker slid across the floor and kicked Grace’s rifle out the open window.

“You Americans and your guns,” he growled with a voice as raw as a predator’s.

The man wore loose black linen pants and midnight tabi boots that muted his steps. The dark shozoku jacket was cinched tight at his waist, the cotton material covering his long, muscular arms before the fabric transitioned into fingerless gloves.

His head and face were covered with a black-and-gold scarf that looked like Persian silk, revealing only his hazel eyes.

As he moved around them, Mirage and Grace turned with him, not allowing him out of their site and readying for his next attack.

Mirage was stunned when he caught a glimpse of a dark-dressed man in the shadowed corner with his body coiled like a snake.

Watching. Waiting.

Mirage didn’t react to the surprise. Instead, he kept his face neutral under the brown cotton hood riding low over his forehead.

Mirage clenched his jaw, waiting for Spectre to respond to tell them who the hell these men were, these ninjas, and how the bastards got the drop on them?

“Stand down, Americans.” The beast-sized man who’d kicked the shit out of him spoke with confidence and determination through a thick Farsi accent.