Ravens (A Tripoli Duet #1)

Chapter 1

One

A knock redirects me, and I stop in front of the mirror as I pass it.

If I were somewhere else, someone else, I might throw on a robe before answering the door like this, but as it is, this is my role.

The people I’m expecting won’t be shocked to find me in nothing but undergarments, and I wouldn’t care if they were.

Raking my sleep-tousled hair, I grab my gun before opening the door.

“Tripoli,” one of the two men in suits at my door greets me before entering.

At this point, I have come to regard men in suits the way one would regard a doctor: professionals who have seen more than anyone can comprehend.

These guys look at me like a thing—not a living, breathing individual, but an asset.

Reengaging the safety, I ignore them and take the gun with me to the bathroom. The mirror reminds me that I passed out with my makeup on—a habit I’m trying to break.

I wash away the flaking mascara and brush my teeth slowly as my eyes take stock.

Every beauty mark gets cataloged out of paranoia, every bruise and cut inspected—luckily, I have none of those today.

A few old scars that serve as faded landmarks are all I see.

After drawing a brush through my hair a few times and tying it back, I slide into a pair of running shorts and a sports bra and then head out to the small seating area.

The look of disinterest on their faces is impressive.

Whatever they’re thinking is hidden behind a curtain of practiced composure.

In this business, being emotional and reactive is fine—if you don’t show it.

I mask my face with the same deadpan expression, even though I’m impatient to get in my run.

“Okay, brief me.”

The first suit rifles through his briefcase for some papers. He’s a large man with broad shoulders and a big, beefy head. If I had to describe him in one word, it would be “cumbersome.”

As I skim through the folder that he hands me, Jeffries, suit number two, who I see regularly, gives me the rundown.

“The man you will be assisting, York, will be expecting you this evening at the Windscape Hotel in Chicago.”

“Babylon is in Chicago now.” Babylon is just a code name, and I know a female owns it but that’s all I know, beyond hearing that she was in Chicago last. Ravens are insulated from one another as a failsafe. “Why is this coming to me?”

“Babylon is dark.” He scratches his brow. “Issues with the gig in Venice, so we’re waiting out.”

“Isn’t Carthage dark too? That’s two in one month . . .”

“She can count,” he says dryly.

Ravens go dark when there is heat on their asses, usually because something didn’t go to plan or sometimes because they get a little too tangled up in their own cover story. It really doesn’t happen often; it’s never happened with this frequency, ever.

The papers in my hand outline my contact’s general appearance: Caucasian, average height, medium build, balding. There is a schematic of the hotel, a current guest list—the usual. I run my eyes over the information carefully for a few minutes and then set the folder down and focus on Jeffries.

He continues. “Your flight leaves in three hours, so you’ll arrive with time to get your bearings.

You should arrive first, so follow protocol and be sure to sweep the room.

” He taps the folder. “In the unlikely event there is a problem, extraction details are inside, but it’s up to you to get to the rendezvous, so prep an exit strategy. ”

Standard.

“The rendezvous location has been arranged by York’s team, but don’t be concerned. We’re allies—if things go wrong, we’ll need you both free and clear. The people that need to know where to find you already know.”

Not standard.

“The description of this York is generic.” He sounds like any pencil-pushing forty-something, so not exactly easy to pick out of a crowd. “How am I to make contact?

“When you arrive at the hotel, pick up your key at the front desk. On the back, there will be a question and answer. When York arrives, ask him the question. If any answer other than the designated one comes out of his mouth—shoot him.”

“Any response other than the one on the card means the operation is compromised, correct?”

For all intents and purposes, his instructions were quite clear, but sometimes parroting instructions can shift liability—at least where my conscience is concerned. I have yet to have had to kill someone; I’d like to keep it that way.

“Correct,” he says and smooths a wrinkle in his sleeve. “As far as disclosure between parties, he knows what your role is in this. Behind closed doors you are you, unless you have reason to believe someone is eavesdropping.”

“Am I privy to who he is?” It’s a stupid question, but I ask all the same.

“If you were, you’d have been given those details in your package.”

“Fine,” I condescend. “The only information I have regarding my cover is that I’m the ‘wife.’” I pull my socks and runners on. “That’s not what I would call comprehensive.”

“We do not anticipate you needing to be social, but you must look and act the part and improvise when necessary.” He watches 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 the full extent 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 for a reason. They need people like us, so I never understand why some of these agents bother to look down on our existence. They recruited 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.