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)
After a career in special forces, then as a smokejumper, Cole Mercer is ready for a new challenge. When he hears that the world-renowned covert operations team at Jameson Force Security is opening a facility in Seattle, Cole knows exactly where he belongs. What he doesn’t expect is to come face-to-face with the woman he never stopped loving—the one who walked away before either of them said goodbye.
Investigative journalist Tessa Ward has uncovered proof that a powerful real estate developer is tied to a string of deadly wildfires in the Pacific Northwest. It’s the kind of story that could make her career… or end her life. When her source is murdered in cold blood, Tessa realizes the truth is more dangerous than she ever imagined. With no other options, Tessa knows she has no choice but to turn to the one man she swore she’d never ask for help.
Some fires are set on purpose. Others never stop burning.
Their past ended in heartbreak, but when it’s clear she’s being hunted, Tessa and Cole are forced to set aside their hurt. As they chase a trail of corruption, arson, and murder, every life-or-death decision reignites old passions. But the closer they get to the truth, the more dangerous the game becomes—and one wrong move could cost them everything, including each other
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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.