Code Name: Ember (Paperback)

Chapter 1

Cole

Gunfire cracks through the training bay, sharp and contained, the sound ricocheting off steel beams and reinforced concrete. The air carries the acrid smell of burned propellant left behind by the sim rounds—the small polymer bullets we shoot at each other rather than real ammunition.

I pivot left around a fabricated drywall corner, Glock up, both hands steady. The digital overlay in my heads-up display flashes a red silhouette through the partition—an armed hostile, two meters beyond the threshold.

I drop to one knee at the doorway, lean out just enough to clear the angle, and fire three rapid shots.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The projection target flickers and dissolves. A chorus of electronic beeps confirms the neutralization, but the overhead scoreboard still burns bright above the bay doors.

SECOND PLACE.

“Hostage compromised,” the automated system announces in its calm, infuriating voice over the comms.

Fuck.

The third floor of the Jameson Force Seattle headquarters isn’t just a firing range. It’s a full-immersion tactical maze with modular walls on hydraulic tracks that can be moved around in various formations. Programmable lighting can drop the room into blackout mode in half a second and ceiling-mounted projectors are capable of projecting holographic moving civilians, vehicles or armed suspects into the simulation drills. On top of that, we have the standard pop-up targets that will appear out of nowhere and shave years off your life.

Today’s scenario is a hostage extraction inside a two-story urban warehouse. The program is giving us several hostiles, three civilians and zero acceptable collateral damage.

I clear the doorway properly this time, sweeping the near corner before shifting deeper into the room. A hostage mannequin lies zip-tied behind stacked cargo crates, an attached LED light blinking yellow to indicate a moderate but survivable injury. My HUD—the heads-up display projected across my smart lenses—flashes the damage report at the lower edge of my vision.

All hostiles neutralized. Zero civilian deaths. Clean shot placement. Response time four-point-two seconds behind optimal.

***

Second place by a margin that would have been invisible to anyone not running at this level. Reid was faster today, but it won’t happen twice.

Somewhere to my right, another three-shot burst echoes, perfectly timed, perfectly placed.

“Mercer,” Reid calls from behind a barricade, a grin in his voice. “You slowing down, old man?”

I duck as a fresh hologram pops up to my left. “You’re welcome for the cover fire,” I shoot back, nailing the digitized silhouette before it can light me up. “Maybe focus on not getting yourself killed.”

Josie’s voice crackles over the comms. “Focus, gentlemen. We’re supposed to be rescuing hostages, not arguing like frat boys.”

“Frat boys get to drink more,” Reid mutters.

“True that,” I commiserate, grinning despite myself. Reid’s Marine Corps swagger and Josie’s NSA-trained sharp tongue keep this place from feeling like a funeral. It’s almost enough to make me forget the smell of real smoke and blood.

Almost.

“Clock’s ticking,” Malik’s voice cuts in, calm but firm. “Two minutes to extraction.”

I roll forward, scanning the virtual layout on my wrist display. Target room dead center—two hostiles, one hostage. Breach-and-clear.

“Reid, flank left. I’ll take point.”

“Copy.”

“Josie, bring up the rear.”

She doesn’t acknowledge but hangs back three paces as we sweep the corner. Josie is our lead intelligence specialist at Jameson Seattle. While she’s most dangerous at a keyboard, Malik insists everyone trains the same, and her tactical skills are every bit as sharp as mine or Reid’s.

My pulse steadies but then again, it always does when the adrenaline hits. Everything narrows. Breath, sight, timing.

The door is magnetically locked so I plant a breaching charge, count down from three, and we flow through after it blows. Two paint rounds zing past my shoulder. I drop one target and Reid takes the other. The hostage dummy screams through the speakers in mock terror, a realistic element that sort of creeps me out.

“Clear,” I say, and Josie comes in behind us, holstering her weapon and cutting the restraints off the dummy while Reid and I cover her in case Malik sends in some surprise hostiles.

But then we hear his voice over the comms. “That was really good. Mission complete.”

Josie grins as she rises from the now freed but still inert hostage. “Nice work, boys. Only one of you is bleeding this time.”

I glance down at the red paint blooming across my shoulder plate.

Reid smirks. “You hesitated. Thought you were supposed to be the calm, collected one.”

“Next time, you breach first. Let’s see how calm you stay.”
We exit into the corridor, the air shifting from propellant and burnt plastic to crisp and filtered sweetness. The Jameson Force Security–Seattle Division facility still smells new. It’s been three months since we opened unofficially, a spinoff from the Pittsburgh division, which spun off from the original in Las Vegas.

Tonight is the grand opening proper, and our owner, Kynan McGrath, spared no expense. The building is a 1908 brick structure in Pioneer Square, formerly known as the Blackwood Exchange, but is now referred to among us simply as headquarters. It’s four stories with Romanesque arches lining the upper windows, ornate stone cornices, deep red masonry and tall, narrow windows trimmed in dark metal. From the street it reads as old Seattle wealth—respectable, established, untouchable. Nothing about the facade hints at what happens inside.

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.

Josie has cornered a cluster of potential clients at one of the long work tables in the center of the lobby. A digital display cycles through layered maps as she demonstrates our cyber prowess, which, honestly, is probably more impressive than the muscle of the field agents.

“What you’re looking at isn’t raw chatter,” she’s saying. “It’s pattern convergence. We track anomalies across financial transactions, encrypted messaging spikes, supply chain irregularities. Individually, they mean nothing. Together, they predict instability.”

One of the men folds his arms, his expression skeptical. “You’re saying you can forecast an attack?”

“We can forecast probabilities. The model flagged a seventy-two percent likelihood of coordinated unrest tied to a shell corporation funding extremist logistics.”

The men all lean forward, completely hooked now. They’ve been dazzled by Josie but that’s not hard. I’ve seen her work. It’s surgical—a thousand data points and she finds the one thread that unravels everything. If Malik runs the blade, Josie sharpens it.

Reid drifts past me with a low whistle. “Remind me not to piss her off. I don’t ever want her digging into my past.”
“You don’t have enough secrets for that to matter.”

He grins and moves on, and I decide to hit the buffet. The line snakes past the reclaimed timber columns and I step in behind a broad set of shoulders in the dark navy of the Seattle Police Department dress uniform.

“Are you here for the free food or just to rub elbows with real men?” I murmur low.

Brady Frost doesn’t turn around, but I see the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for optics.”

Brady’s been embedded in the Seattle PD for two months, working to expose a corruption ring from the inside. The head of their internal affairs brought us on to lead the investigation so that it would remain impartial. Brady was a natural choice for the job. He’s a former US Marshal and has nerves of steel. We generated an airtight new identity complete with a fake background that included working with the New York PD, but with a “blemished” record of insubordination and a few infractions. It was pure bait and the corrupt cops drew Brady in right away.

“How’s life treating you?” I ask.

“Sucks,” he mutters. “Can’t wait for this shit to be done.”

From a distance it looks like idle small talk between a private security operator and a city cop. Across the room, near the glass partitions, the mayor stands with the police chief and two men I don’t recognize—tailored suits and government posture, though not city government. Brady’s gaze drifts there briefly, not long enough to draw attention.

He adjusts his cuffs as one of the assistant chiefs glances our way.

“Fitting in?” I ask quietly.

“Well enough. They think I’m ambitious.”

“That a stretch?”

He snorts and starts to respond, but he sees someone approaching me from behind and his eyes ice over. I turn to find Caroline Prescott cutting through the crowd toward us. She’s in a royal blue dress that shows off all her curves, the color matching her eyes. She’s wearing her long black hair loose, which we rarely see with the female agents who always have it tied up and out of the way when we’re training. She navigates with the confidence that comes from being inherently secure with herself.

Brady stiffens the closer she gets and I bet Caroline notices it too. These two seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other since the day Caroline transferred from Vegas to Seattle. Whenever they’re in the same room, they never seem to miss an opportunity to snipe at each other.

“What’s up, Cole?” she says, offering her fist for a bump.

“Caro,” I drawl, eyeing her appreciatively. “You’re going to have every bachelor in this building falling at your feet.”

Brady makes a dismissive scoff and Caroline’s eyes snap to him, brutally chilly.

She glares at him a moment and then turns her regard back to me. “You clean up well.”

“You say that every time I dress up.”

Caroline snorts. “Because every time it surprises me.” She grins and reaches for a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray. “How’s the shoulder? Reid told me you took a hit in the training run this morning.”

“Reid needs a smaller mouth,” I mutter.

“Reid needs a lot of things,” she agrees cheerfully, and then nods toward the spiral staircase that ascends to the top floor. “A few of the guys are up there playing pool. Come up and I’ll take your money.”

“Probably worth the trip,” I say, looking around at all the suits. I hate any sort of hobnobbing.

“Must be nice,” Brady says, pleasant as a blade, his eyes pinned on Caroline, “having the kind of job where playing pool is a work event.”

Caroline turns then, slow and unhurried, like she’s just now remembering he exists, but in truth, I can tell she was waiting for this. “I’m sorry?”

“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.

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.”

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