CHAPTER 15
Cole
The bar sits on the ground floor of a boutique hotel property two blocks off Pike Street.
It’s the kind of place that attracts mid-level corporate travelers and the occasional tech consultant but isn’t frequented by locals.
The after-work crowd has thinned to scattered pairs leaning over high-top tables, a group of women celebrating near the window, and two men in suits at the far end of the bar nursing their drinks.
I arrived eleven minutes early, which wasn’t an accident. I took the corner table against the far wall with a line of sight to both the entrance and the back hall that leads to the rear exit, ordered a beer I don’t particularly want, and spent the time considering my approach.
Kynan had made the call himself to arrange the meeting.
That surprised me slightly—not that he did it, but the speed of it.
Within four hours of Malik presenting the idea, Kynan had a name, a number and a confirmed meeting time.
Which told me two things: One, Kynan’s reach across this industry runs deeper and faster than even I appreciated.
And two, whoever was on the other end of that call picked up immediately.
People who pick up immediately are either very eager to help or very eager to know what you want. I’d thought about that distinction for most of the drive over.
The man’s name is Danny Kowalski and his dossier was sent to me digitally by Josie.
Thirty-eight. Army ranger, two tours in Afghanistan, one in Syria.
Joined Jameson Las Vegas six years ago, left after eighteen months for SAPG.
Kynan hadn’t elaborated on the circumstances of the departure, just said it was amicable, that Kowalski was good at what he did and had taken an offer to move back to the Pacific Northwest where he’d grown up.
He comes through the entrance precisely at eight p.m. with assured confidence. Medium height, broad through the shoulders and a military haircut. He’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a quarter-zip pullover. He scans the room in the same automatic way I do and finds me in about two seconds.
We recognize each other the way operators do, just a mutual acknowledgment that the other person is speaking the same language.
He crosses the room and extends his hand. “Mercer.”
“Call me Cole.” His grip is firm and brief. “Appreciate you making the time.”
“When Kynan McGrath calls personally,” he says, pulling out the chair across from me and settling into it with a toothy grin, “you make the time.”
The bartender appears and Kowalski orders a bourbon neat.
“How long were you at the Las Vegas office?” I ask, keeping it conversational.
“Eighteen months,” he says, a fond smile playing at his lips. “Good outfit and even better people, as I’m sure you know. I learned a lot there.” He glances around the bar briefly, a reflex rather than a threat assessment. “How long you been with Jameson?”
“Just a few months.”
He nods. “Kynan builds good teams. I always respected that about him.” He says it with the warmth of genuine feeling. “You come up through military?”
“Army,” I say. “Special Forces, 5th Group out of Campbell.”
“Green Berets. Impressive.”
I lift a shoulder, then jerk my chin up and even though I know the answer, I ask as if I don’t. “What about you?”
“Rangers,” he says with the slight lift of someone who’s just found common ground in a foreign country. “Second batt.”
“Ah,” I drawl with a grin. “The guys who kick the door before we show up.”
Kowalski snorts. “Someone has to make the introduction.”
I bark out a laugh and nod. “We always made a good team.”
“That we did,” he agrees.
There it is—the tie that binds. It doesn’t matter that we’ve never met because the shared service is older than either of us and it bypasses the professional distance the way almost nothing else can. I let myself feel it, but I don’t allow myself to trust it.
Not yet.
The bartender appears, sets down his drink and then melts away quietly.
“So,” Kowalski says, turning his glass slowly on the coaster. “Kynan said you wanted to talk about SAPG. Thinking of applying for a job?”
“Actually, no. We’ve got a client situation,” I say, keeping it vague by design. “There’s some indication that SAPG assets may have been involved in some shady stuff.”
“Such as?” he inquires, and he doesn’t seem offended by the accusation.
“The kind that ended badly for someone,” I reply, unwilling to give more than that. “Honestly, doesn’t seem like the kind of stuff SAPG would get tangled up in, and Kynan thought you’d be a good resource to feel out if we’re barking up the wrong tree.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do. It’s small—a fractional adjustment, a tinge of wariness. If I weren’t looking for it, I would have missed it entirely.
“That’s a broad description,” he drawls. “Shady stuff that ends badly for someone.”
“It’s meant to be,” I reply evenly. “I was hoping you might be able to help me narrow it.”
Kowalski leans back slightly, arms relaxed, his posture implying transparency.
“SAPG employs over four hundred agents worldwide so I obviously don’t know all of them.
But I can tell you in my experience that SAPG—just like Jameson—runs clean operations.
We’re vetted by three federal agencies, we’ve got a track record that spans fifteen years, and Pelham doesn’t take on clients who create liability.
” He pauses. “If there were shady activities, it was a one-off by someone rogue.”
I expected an answer just like that. If he’s loyal to his employer, that’s the standard bullshit he would naturally throw out. But he dropped Pelham’s name without being asked and that has my interest.
I hadn’t mentioned the owner of SAPG at all. Hadn’t mentioned anything beyond the words shady stuff and he’s already defending the CEO.
I pick up my beer and take a slow sip. “Sure… that makes sense. Kynan said you’d give me the real lowdown.”
And just like that, I know everything I need to know.
The rest of the conversation lasts another twenty minutes, and Kowalski is good—genuinely good.
He gives me what sounds like a useful rundown of their organizational structure and generic information about SAPG’s client intake process.
A careful, plausible explanation of how someone might go rogue because he’s on the take, but it’s unlikely given the system of checks and balances they have in place.
He expresses appropriate concern and suggests appropriate channels.
He does everything a cooperative former colleague would do and I listen and ask reasonable follow-up questions, but give him nothing in return except the impression I came here looking for reassurance and found it.
We spend another ten minutes swapping army stories and laughing like newfound friends.
When we shake hands out on the sidewalk, prepared to go our separate ways, his grip is the same as before—firm, brief, professional.
“Good meeting you, Cole,” he says. “Any more questions, you’ve got my number.”
“Appreciate it,” I tell him. “Seriously.”
“Let’s grab another drink sometime,” he suggests.
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, although I have no intention of taking him up on that.
Once I’m in my truck with the engine running, I call Malik.
He picks up on the first ring. “How’d it go?”
“It was a performance,” I say. “Start to finish.”
A beat of silence. “You sure?”
“He dropped Pelham’s name unprompted,” I say. “I gave him nothing—no names, no specifics, nothing that should have told him who we were talking about, but he knew before he walked in that door exactly why I was there.”
Another silence, heavier this time. “Which means they know Jameson is involved,” he muses.
“They know Jameson is protecting Tessa and that they won’t be able to get to her.”
“Which means it’s extra important you not let her out of your sight until this is over.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice, Boss. She’ll stay in lockdown.”
I hang up and merge into traffic, this new layered threat shapeshifting and settling onto my shoulders. Kowalski was good, but not good enough. The military bond was real—I’ll give him that. It just wasn’t enough to make me forget who signs his checks.
The apartment is quiet when I push open the door, the city lights throwing pale ribbons across the floor. I set my keys on the entry table, rolling my shoulders against the residual tension of the evening. Nothing about that meeting eased my mind.
The living area is empty, laptop closed on the coffee table, Tessa’s shoes near the couch, an empty glass in the sink.
I don’t bother with the guest bedroom because Tessa’s been in my bed every night since we “reconnected.” I open the door to find her propped up against pillows, wearing what looks like one of my old gray T-shirts, a paperback novel splayed open on her chest. She drifted off to sleep as she often did when reading in bed, her reading glasses—small, wire-rimmed, the ones she only wears around the comfort of home—still perched on her nose, slightly askew.
A feeling moves through my chest that I don’t have a rational word for.
Memories of a hundred nights like this, coming home late to find her this way.
I cross the room quietly and reach down, lifting the glasses free with two fingers.
Her unfathomable blue eyes open at the whisper of contact, blinking up at me.
“Hey,” she says, voice soft with sleep.
“Hey,” I say, setting the glasses on the nightstand.
She pushes herself up onto her elbows, the book sliding from her chest to the mattress. She rubs her eyes and peers at the bedside clock. “Jesus… it’s not even nine p.m. and I fell asleep.”
“Turning into an old lady,” I reply with a chuckle.
She rolls her eyes and settles against the pillows. “How did it go? Was he cooperative? Did he say anything useful? Do we have anything we can actually use or was it a dead end?”
I reach up and start unbuttoning my shirt.
She blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Getting undressed,” I say. “It went fine.”