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)
I blow out a frustrated breath and turn my laptop to face her. “Pelham’s wife is named Rebecca. Gavin DelRey has a sister named Becky. What are the chances they could be related?”
Josie’s fingers are already moving across her tablet. “Hold on.”
She looks up after less than thirty seconds.
“Rebecca DelRey married Jason Pelham in 2011,” she says. “San Francisco ceremony. High-profile guest list. Defense industry crowd.”
I lean back in my chair slowly. “So SAPG,” I murmur, “is owned by Gavin DelRey’s brother-in-law.”
Josie nods once. “Brother-in-law with access to trained operatives, logistics networks, and government-grade operational experience,” she adds.
The pieces don’t just fit. They lock. “I’m suddenly no longer having a hard time believing a company like that would agree to arson and murder for a client.”
“Family ties,” she muses.
Erik hadn’t stumbled onto some random security vendor. He’d uncovered a family operation. My brain whirs on overdrive. “If Pelham is facilitating ‘controlled asset clearing’ under the guise of risk mitigation, then this isn’t just corporate greed.”
“It’s conspiracy,” she says with a glinting smile.
I stare at Pelham’s smiling profile photo—clean cut, well dressed, the kind of man who sits on nonprofit boards and donates to wildfire relief funds.
Josie’s eyes sharpen. “You’re on to something.”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously. “But what? And how do I prove it?”
I have motive.
I have financial trails.
I have vague emails that could mean coordination and conspiracy.
I have a dead whistleblower.
I have a brother-in-law connection.
What I don’t have is verification of any of this and I still need someone to corroborate.
CHAPTER 11
Cole
The third floor of the Jameson building trades warmth for readiness. The sunlight of the lobby doesn’t reach up here. Instead, the corridor opens into reinforced concrete walls, sound suppression panels, steel-cage gear lockers, and industrial lighting that leaves nowhere to hide. This level is built for preparation and training.
As I walk by the drone staging room, I catch a glimpse inside—folding tables lined with quadcopters in various states of assembly and battery packs docked into charging banks. One of the tech agents is seated at a workstation running diagnostics, screens filled with live-feed simulations and flight telemetry. Another is calibrating a camera gimbal with careful, steady hands, adjusting it by millimeters to eliminate drift.
The firing range sits at the center of the floor, and I press my thumb to the biometric pad outside the entrance. The soft green glow signals my access has been granted, and the door releases with a muted hydraulic sigh.
Six firing lanes stretch out in a clean row, separated by ballistic-rated panels. Rubberized flooring absorbs impact and dulls the metallic ping of spent brass. Malik has a rotating “chore” list for the resident agents that live here. We all take turns cleaning up the casings at the end of each day, but I’m off duty since I’m on Tessa watch. Overhead LED track lights flood the space with even illumination, eliminating shadow and excuses for bad shots. Digital monitors hang above each lane, designed to measure grouping patterns and analyze shot placement with immediate accuracy.
I move toward the reinforced glass enclosure that houses the armory and scan in again. Inside, steel cabinets line the walls, each weapon secured, catalogued, and logged through a radio frequency identification system. Every firearm carries a discreet embedded tag that registers the moment it’s removed from its slot, tying the weapon to the agent who checked it out and time-stamping the transaction automatically. No paper logs. No guesswork. If anything leaves this room, the system knows who took it and when it comes back.
Pistols, rifles, shotguns. Ammunition stacked in clearly labeled bins. Everything accounted for and everything in its place. I surmise I’m looking at easily over a hundred and fifty grand worth of weapons and ammo at our disposal just to practice with.
I reach for a Glock 19 Gen5 MOS. It fits in my hand with the familiarity of an old habit, but it’s more than that. It’s my current preference because the trigger on this model breaks and is thus more predictable. It’s compact, efficient and reliable.
I check the chamber out of reflex before inserting a loaded magazine and seating it with a firm, satisfying click. When I rack the slide, the metallic snap echoes against the concrete, sharp and clean.
Weapon logged out, I step into lane three and secure my ear protection before sending a paper silhouette downrange. The motor hums softly as it travels to fifteen yards.
The indoor range runs a full twenty-five yards in length, built for versatility. At three to seven yards, we run close-quarters drills designed for confined spaces and fast reaction. Between seven and fifteen yards, it’s defensive work—controlled pairs, movement, pressure testing. Push it past fifteen and you’re into qualification distance, where discipline starts separating from instinct. At the full twenty-five yards, there’s no hiding from your fundamentals. Every flaw in grip, breathing, or trigger press shows up on paper.