Page 29 of Black and Brown

The director pointed to a group of people wearing work coveralls with grease smudges—or was that oil?—on their face and hands.

“Cormac, Lauren, Julie, Doug, and Noah are the managers of the engineering department. And the serious-faced people over there in the white lab coats are the chief physicians on your medical team. You probably recognize a few of them.”

Spectre yawned. “Wrap this up, John. We have our entire lives to get familiar with everyone.”

Hmm, the director’s name is John.

Mirage liked Mr. Overdressed and Mr. Too Expensive Goddamn Suit better.

And yeah, wrap it up.

His bed was screaming his name, and annoyance was rolling off Grace so hard it made Mirage’s teeth clench to stop himself from yelling at the director on his partner’s behalf.

“Okay, got it,” the director acknowledged. “Just about done.”

“The trio in the eclectic clothing with pens and pencils littering their hair are Elio, Calla, and Waylen. They’re in charge of the design team. Your field wardrobe and any personal clothes you’d like. If you want them to make a—”

“I design all your trench coats, Grace, including the one you’re wearing now.” Elio gave a provocative wink, flashing a seductive and inviting smile.

Mirage was tempted to throw a blade into that fucking eye.

“I’ve warned you once, Elio.” Spectre glared.

The director faced the serious-looking woman in the pinstripes. Beside her was a petite lady who couldn’t be more than five feet tall. She wore black-rimmed cat-eye glasses and clutched a clipboard to her chest.

“Last, this is our administrative director. She has her eyes and ears on just about everything.” The director squinted. “She came to us from the CIA, and I don’t think anyone here knows her government name, so we just call her Jo.”

“She’s your personal assistant, and Ms. Tiffany beside her is in charge of hospitality and housekeeping.”

Grace jerked his head toward Tiffany, and she almost dropped her clipboard.

When Grace was done staring at her from under his hood, he turned and glanced at Mirage, then shook his head.

“Jo, Tiffany, never come into our apartments, ever. We keep our own homes,” Mirage told her. “Matter of fact, no one comes to our personal floor…ever. We don’t care if it’s on fire…don’t come up.”

Tiff cleared her throat. “O-of course. Whatever you want, Grace, um, Mr. Grace…fuck, I meant, um…”

Most of the team—primarily the women—chuckled behind their fists as Tiffany turned beet red.

“Grace is fine, Tiffany, thank you.” Spectre stood and eyed the dozens of faces, saving Tiffany from further embarrassment.

“Thanks for staying up so late, and thanks for the introductions. We look forward to working with all of you.”

Their handler stared at each member of the team.

“But if any of you fuck up, even once…you’re gone. Is that understood?”

No one spoke or moved, but glances bounced around the room as if people were wondering who’d be the first of their colleagues to get canned and kicked out of the Ravens organization.

They’d probably be forced to live in seclusion from the rest of the world on the Pitcairn Islands.

Spectre picked up the receiver of a red phone in the center of the table.

“Handler B289 to Control. Browns’ mission successful. Set status to Code 4 ready,” their handler muttered, then replaced the receiver in the cradle.

A computerized voice came over an intercom that sounded as if it was alerting the entire building.

“Second generation activated. Browns are a go for Force Protection Level (FPL) Bravo.”