CHAPTER 11
Cole
The third floor of the Jameson building trades warmth for readiness.
The sunlight of the lobby doesn’t reach up here.
Instead, the corridor opens into reinforced concrete walls, sound suppression panels, steel-cage gear lockers, and industrial lighting that leaves nowhere to hide.
This level is built for preparation and training.
As I walk by the drone staging room, I catch a glimpse inside—folding tables lined with quadcopters in various states of assembly and battery packs docked into charging banks.
One of the tech agents is seated at a workstation running diagnostics, screens filled with live-feed simulations and flight telemetry.
Another is calibrating a camera gimbal with careful, steady hands, adjusting it by millimeters to eliminate drift.
The firing range sits at the center of the floor, and I press my thumb to the biometric pad outside the entrance. The soft green glow signals my access has been granted, and the door releases with a muted hydraulic sigh.
Six firing lanes stretch out in a clean row, separated by ballistic-rated panels.
Rubberized flooring absorbs impact and dulls the metallic ping of spent brass.
Malik has a rotating “chore” list for the resident agents that live here.
We all take turns cleaning up the casings at the end of each day, but I’m off duty since I’m on Tessa watch.
Overhead LED track lights flood the space with even illumination, eliminating shadow and excuses for bad shots.
Digital monitors hang above each lane, designed to measure grouping patterns and analyze shot placement with immediate accuracy.
I move toward the reinforced glass enclosure that houses the armory and scan in again.
Inside, steel cabinets line the walls, each weapon secured, catalogued, and logged through a radio frequency identification system.
Every firearm carries a discreet embedded tag that registers the moment it’s removed from its slot, tying the weapon to the agent who checked it out and time-stamping the transaction automatically.
No paper logs. No guesswork. If anything leaves this room, the system knows who took it and when it comes back.
Pistols, rifles, shotguns. Ammunition stacked in clearly labeled bins. Everything accounted for and everything in its place. I surmise I’m looking at easily over a hundred and fifty grand worth of weapons and ammo at our disposal just to practice with.
I reach for a Glock 19 Gen5 MOS. It fits in my hand with the familiarity of an old habit, but it’s more than that. It’s my current preference because the trigger on this model breaks and is thus more predictable. It’s compact, efficient and reliable.
I check the chamber out of reflex before inserting a loaded magazine and seating it with a firm, satisfying click. When I rack the slide, the metallic snap echoes against the concrete, sharp and clean.
Weapon logged out, I step into lane three and secure my ear protection before sending a paper silhouette downrange. The motor hums softly as it travels to fifteen yards.
The indoor range runs a full twenty-five yards in length, built for versatility.
At three to seven yards, we run close-quarters drills designed for confined spaces and fast reaction.
Between seven and fifteen yards, it’s defensive work—controlled pairs, movement, pressure testing.
Push it past fifteen and you’re into qualification distance, where discipline starts separating from instinct.
At the full twenty-five yards, there’s no hiding from your fundamentals.
Every flaw in grip, breathing, or trigger press shows up on paper.
I square my stance and let my shoulders settle. The Glock rests steady in my grip, front sight aligned. I inhale slowly and release half the breath before pressing the trigger.
The first shot cracks through the room, recoil traveling into my forearms as the casing ejects in a brief flash of brassy-gold. I fire again, controlled and measured, letting muscle memory guide the sequence.
Under normal circumstances, this is where everything narrows. The world reduces to front sight, breathing, trigger press. There’s a certain peace in its predictability, but today, my mind refuses to cooperate.
It drifts downward through concrete and steel to the main floor where Tessa sits researching and digging and getting herself deeper into danger.
I can picture her without trying—hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up, brow creased in concentration as she scrolls through financial records and encrypted files that nearly got her killed.
She’s been there most of the day, lost in the work, determined to follow every thread no matter how dangerous it becomes.
I’m grateful she’s under my protection. It’s a bonus she’s back in my bed. I squeeze another shot and it breaks low and left.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I tighten my grip slightly and adjust my stance, irritated at the lapse. The next round lands closer to center, but not where it should. I send the target another five yards out, watching it glide away with mechanical obedience and failing to focus on it instead of Tessa.
I have imagined reuniting with her more times than I care to admit.
In those fantasies, she calls me. She tells me she’s done chasing stories that require armed security and contingency plans.
She says she’s tired of risking herself for headlines and wants something different.
Something safer. Something that leaves room for us.
That is the version I’ve long hoped that might happen one day.
This is not that version.
Tessa is here because she charged into danger and even when we solve this, she will go right back to doing exactly what she has always done.
The question becomes, have I changed enough to accept that? I have no fucking clarity at all.
I fire again and the round drifts just outside the inner ring.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl, angry that I’m not able to focus.
The range door opens behind me and I glance over to see Reid heading to the gun locker.
The armory door releases with a soft electronic tone as he scans in.
Through the reflection in the lane divider, I watch him select a Sig Sauer P320.
He checks the chamber with efficient precision, loads a magazine, and signs it out without a word.
He takes the lane beside mine, puts on his ear protection and sends his target downrange.
Three shots break in quick succession.
When I glance at his monitor, the grouping is tight enough to pass for a single impact from a distance.
I glance at him and he winks back at me.
Fucker.
We shoot side by side for several minutes, the air filled with the percussion of gunfire and spent powder. Normally, this is grounding and an hour on the range always tends to clear my mental clutter.
My target, however, is telling a different story. I anticipate recoil just enough to pull one low. Another drifts right. My breathing isn’t off, my grip isn’t wrong, and yet the results say otherwise.
Reid finishes his string before lowering his weapon and removing his ear protection. I do the same, the sudden relative quiet grating.
He studies the monitor above my lane for a moment. “Your grouping’s off,” he says, not accusatory, just observant.
“It’s fine,” I reply, though we both know it isn’t.
“You don’t shoot like that unless you’re distracted.”
I clear the Glock, ejecting the magazine and locking the slide back before stepping away from the firing line. “Guess I’m distracted.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “Tessa?”
The question lands with more accuracy than any of my shots have today. I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
Reid’s not one to take the obvious hint though. “Thought that might happen.”
“What might happen?” I ask, irritated.
“Feelings, bro. I thought feelings might happen.”
I set the cleared Glock on the bench and rest my hands briefly on the edge of it, feeling the cool metal beneath my palms. “It’s not like I planned this,” I grumble.
“What’s the big deal? Seems to me reconnecting with a lost love is good, right?”
“Except reconnecting wasn’t in the plan,” I admit. I look downrange at the imperfect pattern showing my lack of focus. “I always thought if she came back, it would be because she chose to. Not because she had nowhere else to go.”
Reid doesn’t interrupt, merely turns fully to me, ears open.
“I gave her an ultimatum when we ended it,” I continue, the memory still heavy even years later. “I told her I couldn’t live waiting for the call that she’d been caught in a situation she couldn’t walk away from. It wasn’t anger. It was fear.”
“And she chose the job over you,” he surmises.
“She had no choice,” I say quietly. “It’s who she is, and I had to respect it.”
He studies me for a long moment. “And now?”
“Now she’s here because she’s in deep shit,” I answer. “But when this is over, she’ll go back to it. I know she will.”
“And you don’t know if you can do that again.”
“Nothing’s changed, man.” I meet his eyes. “I don’t know if I can survive loving someone I can’t fully protect.”
Reid leans back slightly against the divider. “Want my advice?”
I lift a shoulder. “You’d tell me anyway, so might as well go for it.”
Reid smirks, but then his smile melts into a serious stare. “You don’t make lifetime decisions in the middle of an active threat. Right now, your job is simple and solitary. All you have to do is keep her safe. Your feelings can wait.”
It’s simple, really, but also easier said than done. If it was just that easy to put the feelings aside, I’d have shot near perfect today.
The range door opens again and two other agents step inside, their voices carrying faintly before they secure ear protection and move toward the armory. The moment shifts, practical reality pushing back in.
Reid replaces his ear covers and picks up his weapon. “Don’t decide how it ends before it even has a chance to begin again.”