Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
What the street doesn’t see is the alley along the east side, where a biometric-secured garage door blends seamlessly into the brickwork. Cameras mounted under the eaves track every vehicle and pedestrian within a hundred-foot radius, feeding a security system that never sleeps. Inside, it’s a vertically stacked operations center—executive offices and secure intelligence suites, communal gathering spaces, agent apartments on the upper floors, a high-tech command center, and a full tactical training facility with an armory. Forty-five thousand square feet and a mere thirty-two million dollars to renovate it.
Josie falls into step beside us, peeling off her protective lenses. Her blond hair survived the run in a messy knot, a streak of red paint marking her forearm where a round grazed her plate.
We turn into the co-ed locker room complete with separate dressing areas, marble showers and saunas, plus a common room where agents can relax.
“Good run,” she says, tugging off her gloves. “Except for that little hiccup where Cole forgot to duck.”
I strip off my vest. “Calculated risk.”
“You got shot in the shoulder.”
“Paint washes clean and I’ve survived worse than your opinion.”
Reid huffs a laugh. “Careful, Mercer. She’s got better aim than you today.”
“I’m not the one who almost tripped over a breaching charge,” Josie calls over the top of the stalls.
“Tactical foot placement,” Reid mutters.
I laugh at them. “Sure it was.”
Malik Fournier appears in the doorway, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. He’s the director of the Seattle division, a post he was promoted to from the Pittsburgh office. “Good work. Mercer, solid recovery on the breach. Calder, tighten your trigger discipline. McAdams… less commentary.”
Josie’s chuckle floats over the divider. “Copy that, Boss.”
“You three are off the clock. I expect Sunday finest for the party tonight.”
“My dress is fire,” Josie announces.
“Assume tie is mandatory?” Reid grouses.
Malik’s look answers that. “I’ve got to parade you knuckleheads in front of the big boss man. At least try to look presentable.”
“Won’t let you down,” Reid promises, crossing his heart.
I don’t say a word. I’ve got a few years of maturity on both of them, and I’ll come dressed to kill. Which is ironic in this line of work.
The main level of Jameson Headquarters has been transformed. The lobby isn’t a traditional welcoming place for visitors off the street since we only meet with people by private appointment. There is no reception, rather a space filled with pale wood worktables and caramel leather sofas, with glass-walled offices lining the perimeter. For tonight, the communal furniture has been cleared to make room for cocktail tables in charcoal linen, the perimeter accented with dark greenery. Candlelight flickers against the exposed brick. The white-tiled fireplace anchors one end of the room, a black-and-white print above it catching the warm glow from the chandelier clusters overhead. A backlit bar along one side of the room holds top-shelf bourbon and Pacific Northwest gin beneath pendant lights. Caterers dish out cedar-planked salmon, steak skewers and hors d’oeuvres that look too refined to belong in a building wired for tactical operations.
The crowd is dressed as would be appropriate for any multimillion-dollar corporation opening downtown—tailored suits, silk dresses, diamonds. Even we field agents clean up well. Jackets fitted to shoulders honed for armor, the occasional scar or tattoo visible at a cuff or collar.
Tonight the building isn’t pretending to be a consulting firm. It’s presenting itself as a powerhouse in high-tech, specialized security services. Jameson isn’t just boots on the ground. It runs the gamut—corporate crisis mitigation, high-risk extractions, executive protection, intelligence analysis that stops disasters before they trend. We don’t advertise. We solve problems no one wants public. Seattle is the next evolution of that model, Kynan’s West Coast arm built to lean harder into tech, data and predictive modeling. A division that sees threats forming before they make contact.
Malik stands near the center of the room, dark hair loosely tied at his collar, hazel eyes tracking everything without appearing to. He’s wearing a custom suit in deep navy, but he forewent the tie, same as me. He earned the title of Director both in service to Jameson and with almost losing his life as a prisoner of war. Five months chained in a desert hole, and when he came back, he didn’t ask for sympathy. He asked for work. And Kynan gave it to him—not as charity, but as trust.
Anna, Malik’s wife, is at his side, greeting guests with her sunny disposition. It says a lot as her past is just as traumatic as his. Her first husband was an agent with Jameson and died in the line of fire. She was Kynan’s secretary at the time Malik was rescued, and they eventually found their way into each other’s hearts. He told me once that they healed each other and that always sat with me… that a love could be that strong as to fill missing pieces within you. Tonight, Anna doesn’t look like a widow but rather like a woman who chose to build again.