Page 40 of Raven's Mark
"They did." I set the phone on the counter between us. "Now they work for me. Your uncle made that clear on the call. They report to me and take their orders from me. Robert stays at intel support and coordination. He doesn't run this operation."
"And if Uncle Robert gives them a different order than yours?"
"This investigation matters to him as much as it does to us. He won't undercut the chain of command." I hold her gaze. "But if he tries, those four will hear from me directly that there's only one voice they answer to in the field. Because I'll be the one standing between you and whatever comes through that door."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue. She heard what I said underneath the operational language, and she's choosing not to push back on it. For now.
"Where are you meeting them?"
"An abandoned gravel quarry northeast of here. Isolated, with good sight lines in every direction." I check my watch. "I leave at one. Once I've vetted them face to face, I'll bring them back here."
"Here." She absorbs that, turning the word over. "You want them to know where we are."
"They need to meet you and hear the operation briefed by both of us. You've been building this case, and nobody will lay it out better than you." I move a step closer. "Stay here, keep working the files, and be ready to brief when we get back."
Her chin dips in a slow nod, and I can already see her mind shifting gears, organizing the material into the kind of structured presentation that will tell four experienced operators exactly what they're walking into and why it matters.
"I'll have everything laid out."
"If you find anything in those files that changes the tactical picture before we're back, call me. Don't wait."
"I will."
She turns back to the laptop and pulls up the next file, already deep in the work before I've left the room.
Morning burns off into midday heat. I move through the cabin with practiced efficiency, prepping gear in the armory. Spare magazines for the SIG. A tactical vest. Comms unit with a fresh battery.
Raven is working at the kitchen island with her laptop open and half a dozen files tabbed across the screen. Every few minutes her fingers fly across the keyboard in a burst, then stop cold as she reads a detail that makes her jaw tighten.
I can't stop watching her. The way she tilts her head when she's concentrating, copper hair falling forward across her cheek. The unconscious competence in how she cross-references data, builds timelines, connects patterns that would take most analysts days to recognize. The ATF trained her well, but the instinct underneath that training belongs to her alone, and no amount of betrayal can take it back.
It's dangerous, how much I want to cross the room and put my hands on her. Pull her away from that laptop and remind her how it felt when I had her underneath me in the dark. Make her forget about Alvarez and Harlan long enough for us to take what we both need.
But the mission comes first. It always does.
After the noon hour, the sun sits high and merciless overhead. Raven glances up from the laptop, and the silence between us fills with the shared awareness that I'm leaving soon and she'll be here alone. Neither of us names it.
"I'll be back soon." My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"I know." She holds my gaze. "Be careful."
Two words that shouldn't land as hard as they do. I cross to her and slide my hand around the back of her neck, fingers curling into the warm skin beneath her ponytail, and kiss her. Quick, hard, and over before either of us can deepen it into what we both want. I could do a hell of a lot more than that, and she knows it, but I grab my keys and head for the door before my body overrules my brain.
Outside, heat hammers down from a cloudless sky. I climb into the truck and pull out of the clearing, watching the cabin shrink in the rearview until the trees swallow it.
The back roads to the quarry wind through cedar breaks and limestone outcroppings, and I check my mirrors every thirty seconds out of habit. Nothing follows. The county road stretches empty behind me, heat shimmering off the asphalt, and the landscape rolls past in the muted greens and tans of a Hill Country summer.
Live oak clustered in the draws, prickly pear spreading across rocky slopes, open pasture broken by fence lines that have been here longer than I have. This land has been mine since I was old enough to ride it, and I know every turnoff, every draw, every place a man can disappear if the situation demands it.
The quarry sits in a natural depression, hidden from every approach by the surrounding hills. I arrive twenty minutes early and walk the perimeter, checking sight lines and access roads. The position is solid. Clear views in all directions, and anyone approaching will be visible long before they're in effective range.
Gravel crunches under my boots. Afternoon sun beats down on the quarry floor, throwing harsh shadows across the pale limestone walls. Cicadas drone in the scrub cedar, and beyond that there's nothing but silence and open sky.
Two vehicles roll down the access road in formation, dust plumes trailing behind them. They park side by side with theirengines cutting simultaneously, and the precision in the timing and spacing tells me what I need to know before anyone steps out. These men know how to operate as a unit.
Four doors open in sequence.
Rook exits first, and I recognize him immediately. He's leaner than I remember, his dark hair cropped military-short, but the deliberate stillness in the way he moves hasn't changed. He scans the quarry walls in a practiced sweep before settling on me with a nod of recognition. Every step he takes is economical, and I can see him cataloging firing positions and kill zones the way other people notice the weather. Automatic. Constant.
