CHAPTER 1
Kellen
My teammate Cage nudges my ankle, and my eyes fly open. I hadn’t been sleeping. Merely relaxing and listening to music.
He sits across from me. I pull out my earbuds—goodbye, Soundgarden—and raise my eyebrows in question.
Cage nods at the airplane window. We’re on approach for landing.
I bring my seat into an upright position and note that one of the flight attendants had taken my empty highball from the tray that still hovers over my lap.
There were no announcements to have done those things prior to landing, since we’re on a private plane owned by Jameson Force Security, and they don’t care if we have our seats upright or tray tables put away.
Have to say… I love this mode of travel. Another perk of working for Jameson.
Cage taps Malik next to him. He was sound asleep and now blinks at us with bleary eyes.
“Getting ready to land,” Cage says.
Malik grunts and closes his eyes again, crossing his arms over his chest. Cage shoots me a smirk and I grin back.
It was an absolute fucking pleasure to work this last mission with Cage and Malik, providing private security for a group of American engineers traveling through Mexico to evaluate bridge structures. It wasn’t hard-core stakes like hostage rescue, but we were in some dangerous territory, and the threats were real. It’s one of the reasons I love this job—I can be a bit of an adrenaline junkie.
This is my third international mission since coming to work at Jameson three months ago, and while I’ve rotated among various teams, Cage and Malik have actually become close friends. We hang out a lot outside of work and have a lot in common, given Cage was a Navy SEAL and Malik was in the Marine Corps like me.
Yeah… it didn’t take long.
I’ve settled in as a full member of this dynamic group specializing in high-end security services, and there’s no doubt I made the right decision to move back east. The original intent was to leave California and get closer to my parents in upstate New York, but after meeting Jameson’s owner, Kynan McGrath, at a security conference, I knew he was the man to work for. I applied, had three separate interviews with him, and rejoiced when he offered me a spot.
It’s been a good few months.
“Want to get a beer?” Cage asks. The landing gear unfurls and locks into place, bumping under my feet.
“Nah,” I say, looking at my watch. “I’m beat.”
“That’s just loser code,” Malik drawls, his eyes still closed, “that he misses his dog way too much and would rather spend time with him than with his buds.”