Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Rows of sleek, high-tech workstations occupy the center of the vast room, each one manned by agents dressed in either tactical gear or crisp suits. Multiple monitors glow with what I imagine are data streams, security feeds and encrypted communications, while agents move with purpose and efficiency.
A massive glass-enclosed conference room dominates the far side of the space, and a state-of-the-art command center sits just beyond it, with a wall of screens broadcasting feeds of scrolling data. It’s like we’re in a fucking James Bond film.
“Welcome to Jameson Force Security,” Malik says with a grin.
Mila’s eyes dart around, taking in the sheer scale of it all. I can feel her awe, the tension in her body easing ever so slightly as the realization sinks in—these people know what the fuck they’re doing.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, barely able to wrap my head around it.
Malik leads us across the space. I catch snippets of conversation—agents discussing ongoing operations, updating tactical teams in the field, coordinating with international contacts. Okay… maybe it’s more like we just stepped into a Jason Bourne movie.
“Right this way.” Malik gestures toward a set of frosted glass doors near the back. “Kynan’s office.”
I glance at Mila, who looks as overwhelmed as I feel, but she squares her shoulders, nodding slightly. Whatever happens next, we’re in this together.
Malik pushes open the door, and we step inside a space that’s a perfect reflection of the man who runs this operation.
Kynan’s office is sleek and meticulously organized. Dark mahogany furniture contrasts against the cool steel and glass elements, while a massive desk dominates the center of the room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line one wall, filled with books, awards and various mementos from a life I’m assuming has been steeped in danger and high-stakes missions.
Kynan McGrath stands behind the desk, his piercing blue eyes locking onto us the moment we enter. He’s as commanding as I imagined from our brief call this morning—tall, broad and exuding an air of authority that makes it clear he’s in charge.
“Penn Navarro,” he says, his British accent crisp and efficient. “Big fan of yours.”
We shake hands and Kynan’s attention goes to Mila. “And you must be Mila Brennan. Welcome.”
He gestures to the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
As we settle in, I can’t help but feel like we’ve just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.
And I think things are about to get a hell of a lot more interesting.
Kynan leans back in his own chair, hands steepled before his broad chest, eyes narrowing slightly as he assesses me and Mila. He’s not one for unnecessary pleasantries, and I can tell he’s already calculating the risks and potential threats we’re dealing with based on what little information he’s been provided by Van.
Malik leans casually against the far wall, arms crossed, but his body language is deceptive. He’s laser-focused, eyes sharp as they scan Mila and me, already piecing together the puzzle before we’ve even spoken a word.
Kynan’s gaze shifts to me first. “So, tell me everything.”
My mind works to put our story into a timeline he can understand. I tell him as succinctly as I can about the hazing incident, how Nathan died, and how both Mila and I knew who was involved. I explain that it was our testimony that ensured those who killed Nathan were punished, but that our names were never given to the public.
“I’m assuming some people knew you and Mila were the ones who turned them in?” Kynan asks.
I nod. “It leaked, got around to the teammates. We never talked about it… never confirmed or denied, but people in our community knew.”
“And they weren’t happy,” Kynan says. A statement, not a question.
“The success of the hockey team was more important than a kid dying,” I reply bitterly. “At any rate, I’ve been harassed over the years by former members of the Wraiths. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But Mila’s getting serious threats now.”
Kynan’s gaze moves to Mila, waiting for her story.
“It started a few months ago,” she says, soft but steady. “At first there were texts, then the emails started. All anonymous. All increasingly more violent, but I couldn’t tell who they were coming from.”
Kynan’s jaw ticks. “How violent?”
Mila’s voice quavers slightly. “The first ones were… warnings. Threats calling me a liar. But lately…” She swallows, her fists tightening in her lap. “They’ve been worse. More direct. They said I’d pay for what I did. That I wouldn’t see it coming. That I’d suffer before I die.”
Kynan’s eyes harden, but it’s Malik who speaks first. “Jesus Christ.”
“Have you reported these threats to the police?” Kynan asks, all business now.
Mila nods. “I did. But they said without any concrete evidence or a clear suspect, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Typical,” Kynan mutters, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the desk as his piercing gaze locks onto Mila. “I assume you still have the messages?”