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 glance between them, curiosity getting the better of me. “Can I ask how you two ended up building all of this? I know the broad strokes but not the actual story.”
Kynan and Jerico exchange the look of two men who have told a version of this story many times and still find it genuine.
“Helmand Province, 2007,” Kynan says. “His MARSOC unit got paired with my Royal Marine Commandos to clear Taliban out of a string of villages in the hills.”
“Dangerous work,” I say.
“And tediously miserable.” Kynan chuckles.
“The MREs alone were a war crime,” Jerico drawls.
Kynan’s mouth curves. “We spent about four months eating terrible food and trusting each other with our lives, which is really the fastest way to determine whether someone is worth knowing.”
“He was insufferably competent,” Jerico says, nodding toward Kynan. “Human intelligence work, threat assessment, reading people—I’d never seen anyone do it better.”
“He was insufferably everything,” Kynan agrees pleasantly. “But he kept us alive, so I forgave him for it.”
“When we both got out,” Jerico continues, swirling the liquor in his glass, “I founded the original Jameson Group out of Las Vegas. I needed a second-in-command and there was exactly one person I trusted enough for the job.”
“And you didn’t hesitate,” I say to Kynan with a grin.
“Not for a heartbeat.” Kynan takes a sip of his drink. “We ran it together for nearly a decade. Then Jerico decided he wanted a different kind of venture—”
“The pleasure industry called,” Jerico says, completely deadpan.
I blink.
“A sex club in Vegas,” he clarifies, and I blink again.
“Um… I had no idea,” I stammer. “That’s… quite the transition.”
Jerico’s head tips back and he laughs from his belly. “You can say that again. You’ll have to come by as my guest next time you’re in Vegas.”
I don’t even know what to say to that, so I look out over the railing at the lobby below—the crowd, the food, the liquor, the agents who gave up other lives to be here. “Must feel incredible,” I say, eyes cutting back between Kynan and Jerico, “seeing it grow into this.”
Jerico is quiet for a moment, studying the room with those pale green eyes. “Every time,” he says simply.
Kynan glances at me. “Seattle’s going to set the tone for where we take it next. And you’re on the ground floor of something big.”
“Yes, sir.” I joined Jameson because I needed to feel useful. The army gave me discipline. Smoke jumping gave me adrenaline. Jameson gives me purpose. “I’m here for it.”
CHAPTER 2
Tessa
Seattle rain in the fall always feels a little misplaced, like the sky forgot what season it’s supposed to be. This time of year is all about long sunny days, minimal precipitation, and a the lingering smell of distant wildfires. Lawns crunch underfoot, so when rain falls as it is right now, it feels like a welcome interruption. I find the steady beat of raindrops against the tall newsroom windows soothing in what is often considered an incredibly stressful job.
The investigative unit—my unit—sits along the far wall of the Emerald City Herald’s main floor, partially enclosed in glass so we’re visible to the rest of the newsroom. It’s almost eight p.m. and it’s still chaotic. Reporters move between desks and editors gather near a central bank of monitors where headlines are rearranged in real time. Cell phones chirp with tips that will become front-page copy by midnight, if we’re lucky. I’m in the middle of a cyclone of investigative journalism, yet I’ve been staring at the same set of wildfire maps for hours.
Satellite overlays bleed red across Oregon, California, and Idaho. Insurance claim spikes line up with burn perimeters. Property records show rapid transfers with shell companies buying up scorched acreage within days of containment.
On paper, it’s all legal—an array of strategically timed acquisitions. But when I layer the data against the burn patterns, the timing tightens and looks less like dry summers and bad luck and more like orchestration.
“Tessa.”
Simon doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to. When the investigative editor of the Emerald City Herald calls your name, you go.
I grab my tablet and step into his glass cube of an office. The Herald isn’t a struggling boutique outlet. We run two full floors of reporters, maintain an in-house legal team, and answer to a corporate parent that monitors risk as carefully as readership metrics. We’ve broken stories that have exposed corrupt city officials and prompted federal investigations. On the flip side, we’ve also fought our share of defamation suits from people who don’t appreciate the exposure.
Simon leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and fatigue. “You’re still on the fire angle,” he says, not accusing so much as confirming.
“It’s not an angle,” I reply, settling into the chair opposite him. “It’s a pattern.”
“You have alignment,” he counters evenly. “Not proof.”