Chapter Five
Black Ravens
Meridian
Mission Preparation: Part I
The shower had rinsed away the last streaks of blood and sweat from the mission, now replaced with the memory of Ex’s body beneath his—submissive, pleading, and perfect.
Meridian pulled on his cashmere sweater, black and soft, with a sharp V exposing just enough skin to make Ex’s stare falter when he’d come out of the room.
Midnight Gucci boots and tailored black slacks completed his ensemble for the night. No weapons were visible, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have any on him.
They walked down the corridor together, flanked by their seven personal assistants—all of them capable and efficient.
“Meridian, trench numbers one through four have been decommissioned. Wardrobe wants to discuss a new prototype before the next deployment,” Mariah said.
She was the assistant in charge of their equipment.
“And, Ex, ballistics says the scope on the M10 rifle is being recoded. They documented the sensors are showing a point five percent decline in accuracy.”
Neither he nor Ex responded. It was their assistants’ jobs to inform and execute, not create discussions, so he often let their voices meld into background noise.
The ground floor of the new Ravens headquarters stretched wide and bustled with activity. Departments split from the main corridor like technical arteries. Everything was modern, sterile, and purposeful behind gleaming glass walls.
There were teams representing the Blacks, Browns, Greens, and hopefully soon, the Whites, within every main department: Cyber Intelligence Division, Weapons Development, Medical and Biogenetics Wing, Mission Coordination Center, and too many more to name.
He could feel eyes on him. People pretended not to watch, but their quickening pulses and sudden pauses in conversations always gave them away.
They stared at him the way a mortal would look at a god. Part reverence, but mostly fear.
He didn’t mind. Fear did what admiration couldn’t.
Ex walked quietly beside him. Black jeans he’d paired with a studded onyx belt hugged his ass. He wore his favorite black Jimi Hendrix T-shirt beneath a leather bomber jacket. His hair was still damp from the shower and held the scent of his favorite cedar soap.
Meridian’s gaze drifted toward him more than once. The memory of what they’d done three hours ago still burning beneath his skin.
His fist around Ex’s cock, the other hand wrapped around his throat, as he’d bent him over the edge of the sink and pounded into him.
Now, Ex moved with the quiet satisfaction that only came from being ravaged. And Meridian felt…contentment…maybe peace, if someone as evil as him was capable of such feelings.
They were a few feet from the double doors of the Command Center—also called the War Room—when Marius, his lead combat wardrobe specialist, jogged up to him. His signature platinum hair was spiked in every direction, and he was wearing an eclectic black sequin top, and denim bell-bottoms.
“Meridian,” he huffed, out of breath, falling into step at his other side. “I wanted to show you the new trench design before the meeting.”
He had a laptop balanced on his forearm as he turned the screen toward him.
It showed a sleek mockup of a calf-length black suede coat. It had the same features as the others, but it would be lighter than leather. The armor panels were thinner and overlapped to provide an additional layer of protection.
“It’s reinforced with graphene-laminate.” Marius grinned. “More flexibility and higher ballistic tolerance. We just need you to come in for updated measurements.”
Meridian looked over the mockup. It was functional but elegant and sexy. Almost perfect.
But he didn’t do almost.
He pointed to the collar design. “Make it higher and reinforce it. I want more coverage on my throat.”
Marius blinked. “That might restrict—”
“Do it. And widen the front flaps. I want to be able to shield Ex when I pull it to the back, not just the front.”
Marius hesitated again. “But that will make it more front-heavy. It could create difficulty in balance and—”
Meridian stopped walking and turned to glare down at his designer.
Marius swallowed. “I’ll take care of it.” He backed away and disappeared down the opposite hall.
Ex tilted his mouth into an almost smile. “You really know how to inspire your staff.”
“I inspire results,” he said flatly.
When they reached the doors of the War Room, two guards in black nondescript suits, with coms pieces wrapped around their ears, straightened and punched in a code on the access panel that made the doors slide open.
The room was a cathedral built for strategy. The air buzzed with low conversations and machine noise.
The oval table in the center was the size of a small ballroom dance floor, and its surface was currently projecting a holographic map of Chicago. Around it were rows of chairs, each section color-coded by teams.
The Greens, Valor and Zorion, were already there. Clean and sharp in matching tactical green, reminiscent of their military days. The rest of their team—their handler Cipher and their eleven lead field operatives, all dressed in moss and hunter green tones—sat behind them.
Zorion’s gaze was sharp and roaming. Valor lounged beside him, posture deceptively loose but coiled underneath. They always looked as if they’d just walked out of the forest that’d tried and failed to kill them.
He and Ex took their seats in the section reserved for the Blacks. Corvo was already there, reviewing something on his tablet, and their own team was in a tight huddle having an intense dispute.
He didn’t care what it was about.
Meridian gestured to one of his assistants. “Cognac.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man hurried away.
Moments later, the doors opened and Grace strode in, all broad shoulders and smooth motions. His imposing, silent presence drew the eyes of everyone in the room.
He wore a chestnut-brown suede peacoat open over a cream Henley and tan slacks. The kind of casual attire that cost more than most people’s rent.
When he turned toward their section, his partner, Mirage, appeared as if conjured from his shadow. Silent, fluid, face half-hidden beneath his hood. Smaller, but sharper and faster.
Where Grace was sunset and whiskey, Mirage was storm clouds in moonlight.
They took their places in the Brown’s section with their handler, Spectre, and a vast team of nineteen lead field operatives.
When they sat down, Grace immediately leaned into Mirage’s side, his lips barely moving, before Mirage spoke for both of them.
“We’re set.”
Their assistants slipped drinks onto the table: Grace’s amber liquid in a lowball glass and Mirage’s bottle of Perrier.
Meridian sipped his own drink, then removed his cigarette case from his inside breast pocket.
Valor held his hand up and Meridian tossed the case and lighter over the table. Valor lit his smoke and offered the case to Grace, who gave him a look of absolute absurdity.
A few team members were chuckling at their unique camaraderie when the doors hissed open and their director walked in.
“Valor, Meridian, unless you want them shoved down your throat, put those stinking cigarettes out. It’s gonna’ be a long meeting, and I’m not interested in inhaling secondhand smoke the whole time.”
Jo glared for a couple of seconds before he and Valor stubbed their cigarettes out with resigned sighs.
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
While they may have been world-feared killers, Jo was the reason the Ravens still existed and operated with a moral code, so they gave her the respect she’d earned.
Meridian would never say it aloud, but he was sometimes in awe of her.
She was the sleek panther of the Order of Aga Khan, a brilliant strategist and martial arts expert trained in the ways of the old masters.
Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail wrapped in leather straps. She wore a sharp dark-gray suit with subtle gold piping on the collar.
Her four loyal assistants followed her like cubs after their mama bear. One carried a large tablet, another held a stack of files, and the other two went straight to the console at the end of the table to cue up the data.
“Let’s begin,” she said.