Code Name: Ember (Jameson Force Seattle #1)

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.