Page 90 of Ravens
The next day, the airport is busy, but we make it through and relax in the business lounge while we await boarding.
“What’s the job?” I stifle a little yawn.
“You already read the file, so you tell me,” York says, sipping a coffee as we sit near the lounge’s fireplace. “I know you went through all those papers in my apartment.”
I’d thought at the time that everything seemed disconnected amid the information he had obtained for the gala . . . and I was right. It was several jobs scrambled together. I comb through my head, remembering all the papers I read through. The account statements were the most interesting. “Cartel stuff?”
“Trafficking.” He nods. “Drugs, people.”
“What’s our role?” I furrow my brow with concern. We are three people, not an army.
“We’re going to cause a quiet panic.” William sits beside me, and I lean into him as I look at York across from us. “We’re going to clean out those accounts.”
“And make a few key people disappear in the process,” York adds, watching me. “I know you’re more than capable of finding the intel we need and being the distraction we need to round up and dispose of a few . . . marks.”
“Not too distracting,” William clarifies.
I smile. “Right. I’ll try to reserve all my serious distracting for you guys.”
“Promise?” William whispers deviously, and York leans back in his chair across from us, eyes growing heavy as my gaze drifts down his body. I turn my head and stare up at William, his brown eyes already on me.
“Promise,” I whisper, and he leans in and kisses me. I don’t stop it, and I don’t pull away. I do wish I knew exactly what York was thinking about all this though.
“I take broken promises very seriously, Tripoli.”
“Tripoli died in the end, didn’t she?” I whisper again, and then face York. My code name is burned entirely. I can’t use it anymore. While I hope Theresa Collins is eventually presumed dead, this world, our world, where we work behind the scenes and in the underbelly . . . Tripoli will have become notorious, especially within government circles. It’s important that even though I live, even if Theresa Collins is never assumed dead, everyone must believe Tripoli is.
I never thought the day would come . . . or that I’d be relieved by it.
“Raven is just asking for trouble,” York says, placing his elbows on his knees. “But Venus has a nice ring to it.”
“Siren,” William offers.
I roll my eyes at both of them. “We’ll keep working on it.”
Thirty-Eight
“Little Lies” by Fleetwood Mac pours quietly from my lips as I work to twist the wires together. There is something about their lyrics that makes me feel like they were writing the story of my life rather than their own.
“Almost there?” York’s voice cuts into my song.
“Yes, thirty seconds, and then I’m out of here.”
“Roger.” He breathes harshly, and I pause.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” he hisses.
“Bottlecap, what’s happening?” I push the wires carefully down and replace the housing. It’s taken a bit of getting used to radio convention and using our code names consistently. I’m constantly tempted to call him William.
“Just an unexpected guest,” William says evenly. “It’s taken care of. I see you’re done. Move your little ass out of there now . . . Stay low.”
Looking over my shoulder, I pick William out in the distance on the low roof and stick my tongue out. He chuckles over the radio, and I shift away from the car and kneel, untying and then retying my shoelace.
“I’m inside,” York cuts back in.
Standing, I resume running down the sidewalk with “Little Lies” on my lips again as I check my watch. Cutting it close.
