Page 26 of Ravens
Arms come out of nowhere and lock me in place. My heart leaps, and I drop to the ground, my slick coat allowing me to slip from their grip before twisting and hitting them between the legs with a fist.
“Son of a—”
The stranger wheezes and drops to my level.
Shit, Tripoli. What the fuck were you thinking?
I apologize profusely as York turns slowly and regards the man on the ground. Two others materialize from the trees around the small site. York didn’t see me do it, but everyone else did.
“Hello, August,” York breathes out as he takes another sip from the cup.
“Eat it, you prick,” August groans and drops his forehead to the ground.
Fourteen
August watches me from the other side of the campsite. Even with a hat on, his copper hair is unruly as it sticks out from beneath the band. Like so many operatives I’ve worked with in the past, August is unusually nondescript. Average height, fair skin, clean-shaven, pale blue eyes, not attractive or unattractive . . . perfectly forgettable.
Something tells me I should apologize to the undoubtedly dangerous spy I just punched in the nuts, but at the same time, I think I should give him a wide berth.
I’ve taken a moment to study each of them, though. The one named William, with a rifle slung over his shoulder and medium-length, shaggy brown hair, has a few days of growth on his face and sharp brown eyes. Like York, he isn’t very excitable and always speaks in a flat tone, but he sounds like a Texan. He’s the tallest.
The last one, Carter, sports short but messy dirty-blond hair with a full beard and navy eyes. He’s got a thicker build and is roughly the same height as York, but he sounds like he’s from the West Coast. All his words are carefully chosen and precisely spoken; he’s likely quite educated.
I roll a damp log across the site lazily with my foot and then stand it on one end and sit beside the fire. Watching these men together tells me a bit about them, but not much. None of them seem to really relax, and even among friends, which is apparently the wrong term, they don’t seem calm.
“So, how are things?” York asks William as they make their way toward me.
“Good, just been relaxing lately. Passed up a few jobs to tinker around in the shop on my bike a bit. It’s been nice. You all right?” William asks York as he gestures to me and shifts his weight awkwardly to one side. My eyes fall to his leg.
“Fine,” York says.
“Miss.” William nods at me. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I nod back. “Call me Trip.”
“Now, come on, my name’s really William, and I doubt your mama named a flower like youTrip.”
“It’s short for Tripoli.” I smile brightly, and he returns it.
“That sounds exotic. Very pretty.”
William is a charmer, and it’s hard to tell if it’s real or part of his schtick. I glance around at them all again. Chances are, I’m not the only actor here.
“Quid pro quo?” I ask him.
“Shoot,” he says with a nod as he kicks his own log over and sits beside me.
“What happened to your leg?” I knock my knuckles against his right thigh.
“Well, aren’t you clever? Iraq happened to my leg.” He nods. “Piece of shrapnel.” He makes a slicing sound and cuts through the air with his hand. “Had to have a tendon reattached. It’s never been the same.” He looks up at the other men through the thin smoke. “But it only really bugs me now when the weather turns.”
“But you came home.”
“Sure did.” He looks at me for a moment and lowers his voice. “How’d you meet that devil?”
My gaze shifts to York across the site where he’s now talking to Carter and August.Devil. I think York was being real when he said they weren’t friends, but I can’t imagine why they would get together otherwise.
“Luck,” I whisper and rub my nose.
