Page 2 of Ravens
“We do not anticipate you needing to be social, but you must look and act the part and improvise when necessary.” Hewatches me closely, and I stare right back, the flap of muddy brown hair grazing his forehead pulling my attention from his dull gray eyes. “If there is some turn of events and your role becomes more . . . active . . . then you’ll need to work out those details between the two of you. Essentially you need to do your job to thefullextent of its description, if need be.”
I look up at him, suppressing a glare as I finish tying my laces. The insinuation of “whore” flutters briefly across his smug face, but he remains collected. Although I’ve played many roles over the years as part of the Raven Program, sleeping with my counterparts is hardly standard practice, not that it’s out of the question. Shit happens.
The thing is, I have a job fora reason. They need people like us, so I never understand why some of these agents bother to look down on our existence.Theyrecruited us. We didn’t come begging.
Looming, he bends down for his briefcase, and I toss my file back in it. Raising a brow, he closes it and gives me a withering stare. I’m not sure if it’s an attempt to assert his masculinity or whatever, but it’s pointless. What he fails to realize is that I am very good at my job, and I happen to love it regardless of his not so well-guarded opinion.
I’m far from ashamed of what I do, even if it sometimes means crawling between the sheets with a stranger. Men in this business do it all the time, and I won’t let this rank-stunted misogynist try to shame me over it.
I stand, straightening out my frame in front of him. My eyes fall nearly level with his own, and he smirks slightly. I’d like to think that all men are inferior, but I know that can’t be true—I hope. Still, these men are caught up in the notion that size and strength are synonymous, when all it takes is a little cunning and a few pressure points to throw them off balance. I want them to see me as weak, though. Non-threatening. Not a problem.
“If that’s all, I’d like to go for a run before catching my flight. Would you mind?” I sweep my arm toward the door.
Jeffries leaves the room without meeting my gaze again, and the other one gives me a curt nod as he closes the door behind them. A moment later, I’m out the door myself, jogging down the Vegas strip.
Las Vegas has been my detox stop since the last job wrapped up a few days ago. It’s a different place after every job and is far from both the last job and my home base. It allows for any signs of my cover being blown to show before returning home or beginning a new assignment. Maybe one day they’ll send me to Fiji instead of a desert, or worse, Kansas.
Dodging a few tourists as they stop abruptly on the sidewalk and careening around a group of people waiting to cross the road, I turn at the Encore and move off the main Strip. Even at this hour in the morning, Vegas is a busy place. There are taxis everywhere, a sea of yellow and white lurching from a stop to go at hotel doors, and I’m ready to get out of here.
The sidewalks on Paradise Road are mostly clear as I jog back in the direction of my hotel, letting my mind wander.
The news of Babylon and Carthage going dark still doesn’t sit well, no matter what Jeffries says. It isn’t usual. Coincidences bother me. The Raven Program has been in the business of collecting leverage and secrets since its inception. From our own political figures, business moguls, and White House staffers to our agents and spies, none of them are safe from us. If anyone really knew what Russel Wainwright, the Director of the Agency, was up to . . . it would be very bad for us Ravens.
Quietly considering what this new development could signal makes the run fly by, and I find myself back at my hotel doors panting and slick with sweat. Once in my room again, I take a quick shower and pack.
I’m registered at the hotel in Chicago as a “Mrs.,” so I don’t want to wear anything too overt. Crafting a look is essential, but I’ve gotten into the habit of sexy bras and panties no matter what. Something about it just gives a little extra confidence, especially when I have to slap something unflattering over top. Maybe I’m too vain, but “look good, feel good,” as they say.
Pulling on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt leaves me looking painfully average. My long, currently black hair has begun to dry in clumpy tendrils down my back, so I take a quick minute to blow and brush it out, before securing it in a messy bun on top of my head. My roots are starting to come through, and I groan.
A quick application of mascara, lipstick, and big sunglasses has me looking like a socialite incognito, but it will have to do.I scan the room to ensure I haven’t missed anything and then grab my small luggage and head out the door.
With a gesture to the doorman, a cab is hailed, and a moment later I'm whisked off to McCarran Airport, right on schedule. With the airport so close, my eyes rest just long enough to go over the mental inventory of my belongings, mentally flip Jeffries off, and recite the information on York to myself as the cab comes to a stop.
I check in and only have an hour to kill before boarding. My contract stipulates that I fly first class unless a particular job requires otherwise, which makes the amount of traveling I do a lot more bearable. The preboarding lounge is quiet and filled with busy people without much time to chat. Flying might be one of the only times I feel truly relaxed because there is no chance of a knock at the door or a courier dropping off a file out of the blue.
Once onboard, I get situated and tuck into the large cozy chair without removing my sunglasses. They scream “leave me alone,” which is exactly what I want for the next three hours and thirty-five minutes.
Two
The lull of the captain’s voice gently pulls me into consciousness as we descend.
It’s a bright afternoon in Chicago, and I’m thankful again for the sunglasses. At the curb, I hail a cab and head to the Windscape Hotel. It takes forty minutes to get there, and then I’m standing in front of an impressively detailed facade with my small luggage hoping the old four-story building has an elevator.
Despite its exterior, inside the Windscape is a classy place. It has been modernized without erasing the character that speaks to a different era. It isn’t huge but isn’t too small either. The boutique hotel has sparkling floors, a ton of woodwork, and what looks like an impressive little restaurant inside.
I cross the beautiful floors of the front lobby to the service desk and check in. As I’d hoped, my careless appearance and modest clothing barely earn me a glance from theconcierge—whom, incidentally, is so old he looks like he may drop dead at any moment.
After turning down the offer to assist with my luggage, I’m given the room key and waved toward the elevator. Once alone, I slip the key card from the little paper sleeve. On the front is an elegant monogram for the hotel, and on the back is a question, below it an answer. The text is in cursive that appears to have been written during the manufacturing of the card.
No effort spared, apparently.
The elevator pings, and the doors glide open to a wide hallway. It’s hard not to admire the details as I head toward my room. Dark wood floors, polished to a glass-like finish and the warm buttery color of the walls are broken by ornate mirrors hung at even intervals; it makes me feel like I’ve stepped out into the corridors of a palace.
When I cross in front of the first mirror, I discover I look even more careless than I intended. My hair has begun tumbling out of the bun and is sticking out all over, and my lipstick is mostly gone, leaving my lips looking tattered and dry. I can’t believe I walked through the airport like this.
It's almost five when I check my watch, which means I have enough time to sort myself out and complete my other tasks before my colleague arrives around eight. My room is midway down the hall, and I hoist my suitcase on the bed next to a small black case that was already here when I entered.
My first order of business is my hair; it needs a makeover. I call down to the front desk and give the concierge quick directions before hanging up and sweeping the room for bugs.
