Chapter 2
TWO
Jackson
PRECISION CONTROL
I place it against the concrete pillar, measuring exactly seven centimeters from the support beam’s stress point.
The training warehouse reeks of dust and metal, Seattle rain drumming against the roof in a rhythm that matches the steady beat of my heart.
Four Cerberus operators watch from behind the blast barrier.
Four Axion Construction contractors look nervous as hell.
They should be. One millimeter means the difference between a clean breach and bringing down the whole structure.
“Questions?” My query comes out clipped, minimal.
“Shouldn’t we use more explosives for a beam this size?” Collins, Axion’s lead engineer, steps forward. His cologne is too strong for close quarters, a chemical sweetness mixed with nervous sweat.
“More explosives equal less control.” I connect the detonator wire, feeling the familiar snap of the coupling. “Less predictability. Larger collateral damage radius. Your company’s paying Cerberus to teach you precision, not brute force.”
Brass smirks from his position by the door. He’s seen this scenario before—corporate types questioning my methods until they witness the results.
“Time?” I ask without looking up.
“Three minutes.” Brass’s voice cuts through the ambient noise without effort.
Calculations run automatically in my head. Load capacity. Explosive force. Blast radius. Numbers never lie. Never betray. Never demand more than precision.
“Perimeter?”
“Clear,” Halo confirms from overwatch. “Fifteen seconds to optimal window.”
The floor vibrates slightly—Whisper moving into position on the catwalk above. No need to check. Each Cerberus team member will be exactly where they’re supposed to be. We operate on trust. The only trust that matters—trust earned through blood, verified through action.
Not the kind of trust that gets people killed.
“Everyone behind the barrier,” I order, measuring the distance. Eighteen feet to minimum safe position.
I move back twenty-two feet. Always add a margin for error when civilian lives are involved.
The Axion team scrambles to comply, their movements sloppy compared to my team’s fluid efficiency. Brass slides in beside me, shoulder bumping mine in silent camaraderie.
“You good?”
I give a minimal nod. My teammates have learned to read volumes in my silence. Brass has been with me long enough to know when to push and when to let it go. Today isn’t a pushing day.
“Detonation in five, four, three …”
The sound comes first. Not the explosion itself, but the microsecond before—that distinctive compression of air molecules as the C4 ignites. Then the controlled boom, precisely calibrated to take out only the target support without compromising the surrounding structure.
Heat washes over the barrier. Dust billows. Concrete particles coat my tongue—gritty, alkaline, mixed with the metallic tang of explosive residue.
And suddenly I’m not in Seattle anymore.
I’m in Syria. Three years ago. Different dust, different heat, but the same taste of explosive residue coating my throat.
“Trust me, Jackson. Intel’s solid. Building’s clear.”
Colonel Mitchell’s voice crackles through my earpiece, confident and reassuring. My team moves on his word—Kowalski first through the door, then Vega, then Brennan. I’m fourth, the demolitions kit heavy on my back.
“Structural charge here,” I mark the wall with chalk. “Sixty seconds to breach the compound next door.”
“Confirmed hostile location?” Kowalski asks, always careful, always checking.
“Confirmed,” Mitchell responds without hesitation. “Three high-value targets. No civilians.”
The explosion rocks the building differently than my calculations predicted. The wall doesn’t just breach—it collapses inward. Screams pierce through the dust. Not adult screams.
Children.
The dust clears like a curtain pulling back on hell. A classroom. Seventeen kids, maybe eight years old. Some still moving. Most not. Blood spreading across scattered homework papers written in Arabic.
“What the fuck, Mitchell?” My voice breaks over the comm. “You said it was clear!”
“Collateral damage happens, Jackson. Targets were priority.”
But there were no targets. Never were. Mitchell sold our position to the highest bidder and traded our coordinates to pad a Swiss account. The intel wasn’t just bad; it was a weapon aimed at us.
The ambush hit us forty seconds later.
Kowalski takes the first bullet—a high-velocity round punches through his throat. He drops mid-word, hand reaching for the wound that’s already pumping his life onto Syrian dirt. His eyes find mine, confused, betrayed. He mouths something I can’t hear over the gunfire.
Vega goes next. Three rounds center mass, ceramic armor useless against armor-piercing rounds they shouldn’t have. He falls forward, tries to crawl, leaves a red trail for six feet before going still. His wife was pregnant. Twin boys he’ll never meet.
I’m dragging Brennan behind rubble when the grenade rolls in.
The explosion tears him from my grip, shrapnel turning his left side into hamburger.
He bleeds out in my arms, trying to say his daughter’s name through bubbles of blood.
“Tell Sarah …” But he never finishes. Just goes slack, eyes fixed on nothing.
Hendricks screams for his mother in Spanish while his intestines spill through his fingers. Nguyen takes a headshot so clean it looks like special effects until you see the wall behind him. Patel burns alive when the white phosphorus hits, and there’s nothing—nothing—I can do but listen.
Seven teammates dead in four minutes. Dead because I trusted the intel. Because I trusted Mitchell’s voice in my ear saying “building’s clear” while he counted his blood money.
The extraction team found me three hours later, still holding Brennan’s body, calculating over and over how different it could’ve been if I’d verified the intel myself. If I’d trusted my instincts instead of Mitchell’s words.
“Fuse!” Brass’s voice cuts through the memory. “Assessment.”
I blink hard, forcing myself back to Seattle. To now. The training warehouse snaps into focus. No dead children. No dead teammates. Just a perfectly executed breach.
“Clean breach.” My voice remains steady despite the acid burning my throat. “Seven-point-two-second window. Sufficient for extraction.”
Brass’s eyes narrow slightly. He noticed the hesitation. Of course he did. But he doesn’t call it out. That’s the code among us—cover each other’s blind spots without advertising them.
Whisper drops from the catwalk, landing silently despite his size. The Axion contractors stare with barely concealed awe. Most civilians react that way to Cerberus operators.
We’re just built differently. Forged in places that break normal people.
Collins approaches the breached pillar, running his hand along the precise cut. “That’s—impressive. Not even a hairline fracture in the surrounding structure.”
“Precision matters,” I tell him. “In demolition, one degree of miscalculation compounds exponentially.”
But miscalculation doesn’t get people killed.
Misplaced trust does.
The contractors file out, still murmuring among themselves. Brass escorts them to the elevator, his bulk a casual reminder that Cerberus operates in a different league. Halo gives them a mock salute that somehow feels like a warning.
Ghost watches from the observation deck. Arms crossed. When the civilians are gone, he descends the metal stairs. Footsteps echoing.
“Good work. Debrief in twenty.”
The team disperses to clean gear. I stay behind, staring at the breach point. Seven centimeters from the optimal stress point. Exactly as calculated. My calculations are never wrong.
Only people lie. Especially the ones with “intel.”
Ghost finds me in the equipment room, setting detonators in their designated positions. Each one precisely aligned, because precision is all I can control.
“You good?” Ghost asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Functional,” I answer truthfully.
He studies me for a long moment. We’ve never discussed Syria in detail, but Ghost pulled my file when he recruited me. He knows about Mitchell. About the betrayal. About the seven teammates and seventeen kids who died because I trusted bad intel.
“Take the night,” he says finally. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Copy that.”
But we both know what he’s not saying. That the memories are getting worse, not better. That functional might not be enough forever.
Later, the walls of my apartment close in. The flashback left familiar tension crawling under my skin—that itch that demands either violence or sex to scratch. The gym’s closed. The heavy bag in my bedroom won’t be enough tonight.
I need something more immediate. More consuming.
I pull on dark jeans and a black button-down. The fabric stretches across my shoulders, sleeves rolled to expose forearms mapped with scars. The mirror reflects someone polished enough to blend in, dangerous enough to make people think twice.
Three bars within walking distance serve my purpose. Anonymous. Dark. Loud enough that conversation becomes impossible.
I choose the furthest one, letting the Seattle rain soak through my shirt. The cold grounds me in the present, washing away phantom blood and Syrian dust.
Titanium Bar throbs with bass heavy enough to feel in my bones. The air reeks of perfume, sweat, and desperation. Perfect. I scan automatically—exits, sight lines, potential threats. Old habits.
The bartender slides a whiskey neat across the bar without being asked. I’ve been here enough that my preferences are known, even if my name isn’t. The burn down my throat is familiar, necessary.
My gaze moves methodically through the crowd. Not hunting, exactly. More like target acquisition. Looking for someone who wants what I need—release without connection, control without consequences.