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)
“Just saying.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Some of us are actually working tonight.”
“Mmm. And some of us are capable of doing both.”
“That what you call it?”
Caroline tilts her head slightly. “Your cover still intact?”
“Last I checked.” Brady doesn’t look at her when he says it, scanning the room the way cops do when they’re pretending not to be cops.
“That’s reassuring,” she replies so dryly, the dew point just changed.
His posture shifts, a move that’s barely perceptible. “Why? Worried about me?”
“Not particularly.” She takes a sip of her champagne, her blue eyes sparkling with fight.
“Good.” His voice drops enough that it doesn’t carry. “I’d hate to think you were getting attached.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it because your ego is already taking up too much room.”
Her eyes narrow. “Careful, Brady. Your insecurity is showing.”
“My insecurity.” He lets out a short laugh. “That’s rich coming from someone who has to have the last word in every conversation.”
“I don’t have to,” she says sweetly, batting her eyelashes. “I just always do.”
I bite my tongue because I am a professional and professionals do not laugh at their colleagues.
Brady’s jaw tightens. He straightens his cuffs and turns back toward the room without another word. Not a retreat—Brady doesn’t retreat—but close.
Caroline watches him go with the particular expression of a woman who fully intends on enjoying her small win. She takes a sip of champagne.
“You two are exhausting,” I tell her.
“He started it,” she says serenely and moves away, the line parting slightly around her. Brady watches her go for a fraction of a second before muttering, “She’s a scourge.”
“That so?”
“Pain in my ass.” His eyes focus across the room and then he pastes on a pleasant smile. “Christ,” he says low and with his mouth barely moving. “Boss is waving me over for introductions. I hate this shit.”
“Stay safe, my friend,” I murmur.
He gives me a nod. “You too.”
And just like that, he’s Officer Frost again. Another uniform in a room full of power. Only a handful of us know he’s playing a much longer game.
Another server passes with champagne and I take one since it only seems right. Nights like this are all about the polish and glitz of what we do, and I don’t particularly like it. But I do like working here very much so I’ll suck it up.
Before Jameson, glitz wasn’t exactly a job requirement. Army Special Forces First, which is the kind of work that doesn’t make it into the brochure. After that, smoke jumping—dropping out of planes into wildfires, cutting containment lines, trading one kind of danger for another.
Jameson offered a different opportunity at a time when I needed different. Sure… there was still risk and danger, but it was controlled and calculated. Kynan interviewed me himself when Seattle was still a blueprint and a budget sheet and I have zero regrets about accepting.
The reclaimed timber staircase is like a piece of artwork with floating treads anchored into steel supports. It leans into the whole industrial vibe which feels right for a company that can host investors on one floor and run hostage simulations on another.
I climb past the second-floor landing and stop.
Kynan McGrath stands at the railing with a glass of bourbon, watching the floor below with quiet authority, as if he’s taking a moment to acknowledge the greatness of this thing he’s built. Physically, he’s a powerful man with dark blond hair and a neat goatee, but the British Royal Marines instilled in him qualities that a tailored jacket and a cocktail party can’t fully civilize, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Beside him stands a man I recognize from photographs but have never met in person, and photographs don’t do the job—Jerico Jameson, the original owner of Jameson. He’s at least six-six, midnight-black hair and a solidly built frame. His eyes are an unusual light green, almost bleached, and when they land on me, they have the quality of someone who has assessed threats for so long it’s become reflexive and permanent.
Kynan turns as I approach, and his expression warms. “Mercer. Was wondering when you’d make it up here.” He gestures between us. “Jerico, this is Cole Mercer. One of our anchors here in Seattle.”
Jerico extends his hand and I take it. His grip is exactly what you’d expect. “Good to finally put a face to the name,” he says. His voice is unhurried, the faint edge of a New England accent coming through.
“Honor to meet you, sir.”
“Kynan tells me your background is Special Forces and wildfire operations.”
“Yes, sir. Different kind of fieldwork.”
“But the same instincts,” Jerico says, and it isn’t really a question.
“Yes, sir. Same instincts.”
He nods once, satisfied, and I get the impression that’s about as much small talk as Jerico Jameson requires before he’s made up his mind about a person.