Page 37 of Code Name: Ember
“Yes,” I reply cautiously.“But what?And how do I prove it?”
I have motive.
I have financial trails.
I have vague emails that could mean coordination and conspiracy.
I have a dead whistleblower.
I have a brother-in-law connection.
What I don’t have is verification of any of this and I still need someone to corroborate.
CHAPTER 11
Cole
Thethirdfloorofthe Jameson building trades warmth for readiness.The sunlight of the lobby doesn’t reach up here.Instead, the corridor opens into reinforced concrete walls, sound suppression panels, steel-cage gear lockers, and industrial lighting that leaves nowhere to hide.This level is built for preparation and training.
As I walk by the drone staging room, I catch a glimpse inside—folding tables lined with quadcopters in various states of assembly and battery packs docked into charging banks.One of the tech agents is seated at a workstation running diagnostics, screens filled with live-feed simulations and flight telemetry.Another is calibrating a camera gimbal with careful, steady hands, adjusting it by millimeters to eliminate drift.
The firing range sits at the center of the floor, and I press my thumb to the biometric pad outside the entrance.The soft green glow signals my access has been granted, and the door releases with a muted hydraulic sigh.
Six firing lanes stretch out in a clean row, separated by ballistic-rated panels.Rubberized flooring absorbs impact and dulls the metallic ping of spent brass.Malik has a rotating “chore” list for the resident agents that live here.We all take turns cleaning up the casings at the end of each day, but I’m off duty since I’m on Tessa watch.Overhead LED track lights flood the space with even illumination, eliminating shadow and excuses for bad shots.Digital monitors hang above each lane, designed to measure grouping patterns and analyze shot placement with immediate accuracy.
I move toward the reinforced glass enclosure that houses the armory and scan in again.Inside, steel cabinets line the walls, each weapon secured, catalogued, and logged through a radio frequency identification system.Every firearm carries a discreet embedded tag that registers the moment it’s removed from its slot, tying the weapon to the agent who checked it out and time-stamping the transaction automatically.No paper logs.No guesswork.If anything leaves this room, the system knows who took it and when it comes back.
Pistols, rifles, shotguns.Ammunition stacked in clearly labeled bins.Everything accounted for and everything in its place.I surmise I’m looking at easily over a hundred and fifty grand worth of weapons and ammo at our disposal just to practice with.
I reach for a Glock 19 Gen5 MOS.It fits in my hand with the familiarity of an old habit, but it’s more than that.It’s my current preference because the trigger on this model breaks and is thus more predictable.It’s compact, efficient and reliable.
I check the chamber out of reflex before inserting a loaded magazine and seating it with a firm, satisfying click.When I rack the slide, the metallic snap echoes against the concrete, sharp and clean.
Weapon logged out, I step into lane three and secure my ear protection before sending a paper silhouette downrange.The motor hums softly as it travels to fifteen yards.
The indoor range runs a full twenty-five yards in length, built for versatility.At three to seven yards, we run close-quarters drills designed for confined spaces and fast reaction.Between seven and fifteen yards, it’s defensive work—controlled pairs, movement, pressure testing.Push it past fifteen and you’re into qualification distance, where discipline starts separating from instinct.At the full twenty-five yards, there’s no hiding from your fundamentals.Every flaw in grip, breathing, or trigger press shows up on paper.
I square my stance and let my shoulders settle.The Glock rests steady in my grip, front sight aligned.I inhale slowly and release half the breath before pressing the trigger.
The first shot cracks through the room, recoil traveling into my forearms as the casing ejects in a brief flash of brassy-gold.I fire again, controlled and measured, letting muscle memory guide the sequence.
Under normal circumstances, this is where everything narrows.The world reduces to front sight, breathing, trigger press.There’s a certain peace in its predictability, but today, my mind refuses to cooperate.
It drifts downward through concrete and steel to the main floor where Tessa sits researching and digging and getting herself deeper into danger.I can picture her without trying—hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up, brow creased in concentration as she scrolls through financial records and encrypted files that nearly got her killed.She’s been there most of the day, lost in the work, determined to follow every thread no matter how dangerous it becomes.
I’m grateful she’s under my protection.It’s a bonus she’s back in my bed.I squeeze another shot and it breaks low and left.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I tighten my grip slightly and adjust my stance, irritated at the lapse.The next round lands closer to center, but not where it should.I send the target another five yards out, watching it glide away with mechanical obedience and failing to focus on it instead of Tessa.
I have imagined reuniting with her more times than I care to admit.In those fantasies, she calls me.She tells me she’s done chasing stories that require armed security and contingency plans.She says she’s tired of risking herself for headlines and wants something different.Something safer.Something that leaves room for us.
That is the version I’ve long hoped that might happen one day.
This is not that version.
Tessa is here because she charged into danger and even when we solve this, she will go right back to doing exactly what she has always done.
