Page 1 of Ravens
One
As I watch the errant shafts of feathery morning light prick the foot of the bed for almost an hour, my phone buzzes in my hand, and I check it. The number 1007 blinks onto the screen, and then I remove the battery, crack the phone in half, and toss it in the garbage.
A knock redirects me, and I stop in front of the mirror as I pass it. If I were somewhere else, someoneelse, I might throw on a robe before answering the door like this, but as it is, this is my role. The people I’m expecting won’t be shocked to find me in nothing but undergarments, and I wouldn’t care if they were.
Raking my sleep-tousled hair, I grab my gun before opening the door.
“Tripoli,” one of the two men in suits at my door greets me before entering. At this point, I have come to regard men in suits the way one would regard a doctor: professionals who have seenmore than anyone can comprehend. These guys look at me like a thing—not a living, breathing individual, but an asset.
Reengaging the safety, I ignore them and take the gun with me to the bathroom. The mirror reminds me that I passed out with my makeup on—a habit I’m trying to break.
I wash away the flaking mascara and brush my teeth slowly as my eyes take stock. Every beauty mark gets cataloged out of paranoia, every bruise and cut inspected—luckily, I have none of those today. A few old scars that serve as faded landmarks are all I see. After drawing a brush through my hair a few times and tying it back, I slide into a pair of running shorts and a sports bra and then head out to the small seating area.
The look of disinterest on their faces is impressive. Whatever they’re thinking is hidden behind a curtain of practiced composure. In this business, being emotional and reactive is fine—if you don’t show it. I mask my face with the same deadpan expression, even though I’m impatient to get in my run.
“Okay, brief me.”
The first suit rifles through his briefcase for some papers. He’s a large man with broad shoulders and a big, beefy head. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be “cumbersome.”
As I skim through the folder that he hands me, Jeffries, suit number two, who I see regularly, gives me the rundown.
“The man you will be assisting, York, will be expecting you this evening at the Windscape Hotel in Chicago.”
“Babylon is in Chicago now.” Babylon is just a code name, and I know a female owns it but that’s all I know, beyondhearing that she was in Chicago last. Ravens are insulated from one another as a failsafe. “Why is this coming to me?”
“Babylon is dark.” He scratches his brow. “Issues with the gig in Venice, so we’re waiting out.”
“Isn’t Carthage dark too? That’s two in one month . . .”
“She can count,” he says dryly.
Ravens go dark when there is heat on their asses, usually because something didn’t go to plan or sometimes because they get a little too tangled up in their own cover story. It really doesn’t happen often; it’s never happened with this frequency, ever.
The papers in my hand outline my contact’s general appearance: Caucasian, average height, medium build, balding. There is a schematic of the hotel, a current guest list—the usual. I run my eyes over the information carefully for a few minutes and then set the folder down and focus on Jeffries.
He continues. “Your flight leaves in three hours, so you’ll arrive with time to get your bearings. You should arrive first, so follow protocol and be sure to sweep the room.” He taps the folder. “In the unlikely event there is a problem, extraction details are inside, but it’s up to you to get to the rendezvous, so prep an exit strategy.”
Standard.
“The rendezvous location has been arranged by York’s team, but don’t be concerned. We’re allies—if things go wrong, we’ll need you both free and clear. The people that need to know where to find you already know.”
Not standard.
“The description of thisYorkis generic.” He sounds like any pencil-pushing forty-something, so not exactly easy to pick out of a crowd. “How am I to make contact?
“When you arrive at the hotel, pick up your key at the front desk. On the back, there will be a question and answer. When York arrives, ask him the question. If any answer other than the designated one comes out of his mouth—shoot him.”
“Any response other than the one on the card means the operation is compromised, correct?”
For all intents and purposes, his instructions were quite clear, but sometimes parroting instructions can shift liability—at least where my conscience is concerned. I have yet to have had to kill someone; I’d like to keep it that way.
“Correct,” he says and smooths a wrinkle in his sleeve. “As far as disclosure between parties, he knows what your role is in this. Behind closed doors you areyou, unless you have reason to believe someone is eavesdropping.”
“Am I privy to who he is?” It’s a stupid question, but I ask all the same.
“If you were, you’d have been given those details in your package.”
“Fine,” I condescend. “The only information I have regarding my cover is that I’m the ‘wife.’” I pull my socks and runners on. “That’s not what I would call comprehensive.”
