Page 48 of Ravens
A dead Director will be succeeded, and Raven will continue to be eliminated, and my file will pass down to the next in line. York’s mission isn’t really me; it’s been to confirm what we have on Britain and seek retribution, and he thinks he needs me to do that. Once that objective is reached, he’s going to disappear.
The death of the Raven program is in everyone’s best interest now, so he won’t stop it. He might feel some obligation to me—might—but he’s not going to ignore orders for me. I signed on the dotted line, and I did the dirty work . . . The Director is going to meet his consequences, and one day I’ll meet mine, although I will outrun them for as long as I can.
After scouring the apartment, I find all the papers from the other night that were on the table, a laptop, and a few burner phones. Once I see the laptop isn’t connected to the internet and I can’t tether such a low-tech phone to it, I put it back.
I take my time going over each paper in the pile and committing it to memory. It’s a mess of information that’s all out of order and some unrelated, including various account statements, real estate holdings in South America, shipping routes into Canadian ports, you name it, but I go over everything and then stuff it back where I found it.
The burner phone feels like an anvil in my hand. What I need is an internet connection to make sense of things, but I don’t have time for that, and as soon as I start hacking, someone is going to be alerted. I’m going to have to figure this out on my own steam.
The phone sits in my palm for a few more minutes before I turn it on. When it boots up, I check the date, October 3, and then I type out the same message I’ve been typing since Vegas:1007. After I send it, I delete the outgoing and shut the phone off, stowing it in the drawer under the bed where I found it.
The deep rumble of the engine reaches me well before the car pulls in, and I wait, wrapping myself up in a blanket on the couch. There is nothing in his hands when he enters, and after hanging up his wet coat, he heads right to the kitchen and starts cooking.
I watch him as he moves around with ease, a slight crease in his brow like he’s got something on his mind, but otherwise, his face is blank. It’s always so fucking blank.
We eat in relative silence again, which feels foreboding after last night. After dinner, the only sound is some quiet music that he puts on when he pours himself a drink, and I feel hesitant again in his presence. There is a big part of me that wants to crawl into his lap and feel protected, safe like I felt that first night in the tent when he wrapped me up in his arms unexpectedly.
I haven’t felt secure in a lot of years, but I’ve had moments of it with him. Logic dictates that I shouldn’t get comfortable and depend on that feeling. It’s going to get ripped away. The onlysecurity I can rely on is the information in my head, because that is what is going to keep me alive.
But still.
I walk into the living room and sit, putting my head in his lap. He doesn’t stop me or shove me away like I prepare for. Instead, his calloused hand strokes my neck as he sips his whiskey, and I stare across the room in silence.
Twenty-Five
“I’m going to need your trust tonight.” He hands me the garment bag. “You won’t have a weapon because of security measures. We’ll be relying on Will to watch our backs and intervene if necessary.”
“The idea of him watching me through a scope all night isn’t the reassurance you think it is.” I accept the bag and head into the washroom to get ready.
I pin my hair back in a twist and curl the little tendrils that won’t stay put. After putting in the colored contact lenses, I sculpt and contour my face until I barely recognize myself and finish the look with fake lashes and a glossy nude lip.
When I unzip the garment bag and find the dressIbought in it, a swell of emotion hits me again, and I rub at my chest. Why is he doing this? He really didn’t like the idea of me wearingthis.
Once the satin dress is on and my heels are fastened, I step out into the apartment to find him, half-expecting him to be upset when he realizes he handed me the wrong dress.
But he isn’t upset. He’s waiting by the kitchen with a drink in his hand wearing an immaculate tux that has been tailored to his frame. From the crisp white shirt to the precisely set bowtie, down to the cufflinks that catch the light as he sips his whiskey, he looks perfect.
I keep my head up when he exhales loudly, and a muscle in his jaw feathers as he sets his glass down.
“I got you something.” He picks up a small glass bottle from the counter and flips it upside down before removing the glass stopper. He presses it below my ear.
The scent is light, fresh, faintly floral. It reminds me of something that I can’t put my finger on. “What’s this called?”
“Paradise.”
“Hm. It’s familiar . . .” He sets it back on the counter and picks up a black box and hands it to me. “What’s this for?”
“Open it.”
Inside I find two matching, wide gold bangles that he lifts and slides over each of my hands. They cover the nearly healed cuts around my wrists that I’d completely forgotten about. I stare at them momentarily, daunted by his attention to detail while also feeling grateful for it.
“Time to go.”
I grab my small clutch without a word and avoid his eyes again as we head out. I need to keep my head clear tonight, and we’re already off to a bad start.
We drive about thirty minutes and pull into Arlington Cemetery, where he parks the car and guides me through the parking lot. A town car pulls in, stopping us midway, and he pulls the door open for me.
The town car takes us over the Potomac. After a bit of a delay in traffic, he’s helping me out of the car, and we’re making our way to the Lincoln Monument. The air is chill, and I shiver without a coat.
