Page 22

Penn

T he black SUV glides effortlessly through the bustling streets of downtown Pittsburgh and my mind races with possibilities.

Mila sits beside me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

She’s quiet, but I can sense her tension—the way her shoulders are just a little too stiff, her jaw clenched as she stares out the window.

I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly at ease either.

We’re about to walk into a world I know nothing about.

A world of covert operations, elite security, and men who operate in the shadows.

Our driver, Malik Fournier, is Van’s brother-in-law and one of Jameson Force Security’s top agents.

He navigates the city like he owns the damn place.

I’ve barely said a word since we climbed into the SUV that was sent to fetch us, but Malik hasn’t seemed to notice.

He’s relaxed, humming quietly, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel as if he’s chauffeuring us to brunch instead of a high-security operation.

I talked to the owner of Jameson, Kynan McGrath, first thing this morning and he’d been expecting my call as Van had put the wheels in motion.

It wasn’t a long conversation, but in his precise British accent he told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to come to his offices immediately.

I asked for his address and he refused, instead telling me he’d have a driver there in thirty minutes to pick us up.

“So, Van tells me you’re pretty good with your fists.” Malik finally breaks the silence, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror to catch my gaze.

My fists? I’m a valuable high-scoring asset on the team. I don’t get into fights on the ice. Well, not unless McLendon is testing my last bit of patience. “I leave it up to my defensemen to drop the gloves.”

Malik laughs. “Yeah, I watch you plenty on the ice. But I’m talking about that little incident Van told me about where you took on two bikers. Man, you don’t do things halfway.”

Mila’s head whips my way. She doesn’t know about that and I expect she’ll grill me about it later.

It’s odd… her sitting next to me, big blue eyes questioning in a way that goes beyond just a curious friend.

She looks like a woman who spent all night underneath me and now has the right to worry about such things.

I reach over, take her hand and draw it over onto my lap. “I’ll tell you about it later.” My eyes lift, catch Malik’s in the rearview mirror. “Let’s just say I had a lot of pent-up frustration that night.”

Malik grins, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Van mentioned you keep to yourself a lot.”

“Yeah… that’s my reputation,” I mutter, and it’s a sad commentary on the last few months. Van and I are teammates, but I don’t know him or his wife, Simone, all that well. “I haven’t exactly been the most social guy in the locker room.”

Malik gives a knowing nod but doesn’t press. “Van’s a good guy. Simone’s golden too, but I’m a little biased as her brother. You ever need anything, they’d have your back, as I expect all your teammates would.”

“Let’s just say I’ve come to figure that out,” I murmur, shifting my gaze to Mila, who’s back to staring out the window. Her grip on my hand is tight and I can feel the anxiety rolling off her in waves.

Last night we were able to put all our worries aside.

I must confess—I had a fucking awesome time hanging out with her, King and Willa.

It was the most fun I think I’ve ever had in my adult life and that’s a brutally sad thing to admit.

The laughter, the storytelling, sitting next to Mila with our legs touching… all of it was perfection.

Malik turns down a narrow alley, pulling away from the bright, polished streets of downtown into something… grittier. The building that looms ahead is a far cry from the glitzy high-rises just a few blocks away.

“Here we are,” Malik announces, his voice laced with a hint of pride as he steers the SUV into a private underground garage. He’s stopped at a steel bar blocking the entrance but after a few seconds, it lifts for him. I didn’t see him press any buttons so maybe there’s a security guard watching.

The exterior of the building is deliberately nondescript—a dilapidated, gray-brick structure that looks like it’s been abandoned for years.

Graffiti stains the cracked walls, and several of the windows on the first floor are boarded up.

Windows on the upper floors are crusted with dirt and grime.

To anyone passing by, it’s nothing but an eyesore, blending perfectly into the rougher part of town.

“Doesn’t look like much,” I mutter as we roll to a stop inside the underground garage. The space is dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of concrete and motor oil. There are several vehicles parked in spots that long ago lost their painted white stripes.

“That’s the point,” Malik replies with a grin. “Jameson isn’t interested in drawing attention. We like to operate under the radar.”

As we step out of the SUV, I notice the subtle security features many people would miss—motion sensors discreetly mounted in the corners, surveillance cameras tucked into shadows, and a reinforced steel door leading to the interior.

“Come on.” Malik gestures, leading us to a box mounted on the wall beside the door.

He presses his thumb to the screen and it glows green.

Then he peers into the screen and a red light focuses in on his eyes.

“Biometric scanner,” Malik says with a smile as the door clicks open with a soft, almost imperceptible hiss.

We step inside, entering what looks like… a fucking disaster.

The first floor is as uninviting as the exterior. The space is cluttered with broken furniture, peeling paint and debris that gives off the vibe of an abandoned warehouse. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling, rust streaks marring the concrete walls. The air smells faintly of mildew and neglect.

Mila’s nose wrinkles. “This is the Jameson office?”

Malik laughs, shaking his head as he leads us toward a steel elevator tucked discreetly in the corner. “Not quite. This is just the illusion. Upstairs… that’s where the magic happens.”

He swipes a keycard and punches in a code. The elevator hums softly and the doors glide open, revealing a sleek, modern interior that’s a stark contrast to the chaos of the first floor.

As we ascend, I glance at Mila. Her eyes are wide, taking everything in with quiet curiosity. I don’t blame her. I feel the same way—completely out of my element but intrigued as hell.

The doors open with a muted chime, and the scene transforms.

The upper floors are a whole different world.

The space is modern and immaculate, all glass, steel and polished surfaces.

The layout is open, with floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the office with natural light.

The floors are gleaming hardwood, the walls painted a cool, neutral gray that exudes sophistication and control.

“Wait a minute,” I say, and Malik turns to face me. I point at a stretch of windows showing the sunny winter sky outside. “The windows… when we pulled up, I saw they were coated with dirt but from in here, they look clean.”

Malik chuckles. “Optical illusion. Kynan had an artist paint the windows to look dirty from the outside but whatever the magic compound is, it’s see-through from the inside. Again, to give the illusion this building is abandoned.”

“Genius,” I murmur, feeling for the first time that we’re definitely in the right place.

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.”