Page 3 of Ravens
Standard protocol dictates that I check all the vents, light fixtures, fire extinguisher, smoke alarm, electronics, and telephones. Once I’m satisfied that no one is listening, I pull out the hotel’s schematics from my file and commit it to memory. While technology would make things easier, I can’t risk being tracked or hacked.
Every floor of the hotel is laid out the same, so I focus on where the exits and service area accesses are and then glance out the window. If the need arises, but I’m unable to get out of the room, the best escape will be through the window and across the ledge to the neighboring balcony; otherwise, it is down the hall to the stairs and through the delivery dock at the back.
With due diligence done, I unzip the black case and load the Beretta I requested before placing it in the back of my jeans and pulling my T-shirt over it. If the wrong person shows up here, I’ve got to be ready. A second, smaller gun goes down between the cushions of the small couch at the periphery of the room.
My preparations are interrupted by a knock at the door, and my heart leaps. It’s too early.
“Concierge, madam,” someone croaks from the other side of the door.
Looking out the peephole, I relax when I see the same old, near-death gentleman I saw in the lobby earlier. I open the door and take the box from his hand before tipping him generously.
In the bathroom, I place the gun on the counter and then lock myself in and get to work.
***
It’s getting late by the time I emerge with fresh hair. The red dye gave the existing black a bit more dimension. It won’t last long—red never does—but it looks fresh, and I don’t feel like such a mess anymore. The shower helped. Pulling out fresh undergarments, I slip into a black set, and I’m just fastening the bra when there is another knock at the door.
Taking a steady breath, I grab the key card from the bed and flip it over, rechecking the question and answer before tossing it aside and grabbing the gun. Meeting an operative for the first time is always interesting. I guess it’s a good sign that he knocked when he could have just used his key and walked right in. Very polite, even if he is catching me barely dressed either way.
Most of them are anal, paranoid, and suspicious. It comes with the territory and keeps them alive, I’m sure, but it’s the ones that are awkward or new to the field that I dislike. It makes my job harder, and I never know what I am going to get until we meet.
Opening the door, I step back behind it as a shield and don’t look at him initially. One of my hands is gripping the door and the other is gripping the gun pointed at the back of the door.
“Why does the black cat cross the road at night?”
“It is the night watch of those who lurk in the shadows,” he says calmly through his thick British accent.
He stops in the center of the room with his back to me, and his shoulders relax. A gun I can’t see clicks as the safety is put back on, so I do the same before closing and locking the door.
I’ve never been greenlit to shoot a colleague before, which makes me wonder just how vital this mission of his is, and what it’s really going to require of me. My mouth waters at the possible information I might discover here.
He throws his bag onto the bed and then casually turns to face me as I empty the bullet from the chamber of my gun and set the piece on the console. When our eyes meet, the expression of feigned boredom I had planned to give him shifts to curiosity.
He’s not what I expected.
The generalized description I received doesn’t match. He’s not balding, his hair is trimmed down to the scalp, and he’s about six foot one, with piercing blue eyes and a day or two of stubble across his jaw. Mid to late thirties, he is not the usual operative I encounter because there isn’t anything average about him.
The hungry appraisal on his face as he lifts his hand to rub his jaw is hard to ignore, but then again, I am in nothing but a bra and underwear. His eyes don’t linger long though, and he turns away, shrugging off his suit jacket. I measure him up as he gets situated, noticing that he’s quite fit as he rolls up his sleeves and clocks me from the corner of his eye.
“Did I interrupt something?” He gestures toward me. “Or is answering the door naked a custom?”
“More like an unfortunate happenstance,” I say smoothly. “You’re early. I was in the middle of getting dressed.”
“Happenstance or not, I wouldn’t say it’sunfortunate,” he says in a low tone as he averts his gaze and removes his shoes.
The way his accent caresses words should be a crime, and when his tongue strokes his lower lip, I find myself wetting my own in response. I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, sex has happened on the job before, but it’s most often to fool someone who gets a little too close to uncovering the lie trying to be sold. I can’t say any of those times have been noteworthy, and they certainly weren’t born of desire, that’s for sure. Spies and agents are far more pedestrian-looking than you’d expect, which helps them blend in, and pretty much ensures I don’t find them at all attractive.
This guy though . . . he’s not pedestrian at all. In fact, if he talks much more, that accent and gravelly tone will get the better of me.
He walks over to the minibar in the corner and begins fixing himself a drink, and I decide I need to stop standing here half-dressed.
“Would you like something?” He gestures at the bar.
“Hm, no,” I say a little hoarsely, which draws his attention. “I think I’m just going to continue getting dressed,” I add more softly, controlling my tone.
Inhaling the aroma from his glass of whiskey, he closes his eyes, and I move to grab the dress I laid out on the back of the chair beside him. Pulling it over my head, he swallows a mouthful loudly, letting out a grumbled breath that makes the hair on my arms stand as I pull the dress down over my ass.
“Dinner?” I turn to find him standing right in front of me.
