The reclaimed timber staircase is like a piece of artwork with floating treads anchored into steel supports.It leans into the whole industrial vibe which feels right for a company that can host investors on one floor and run hostage simulations on another.
I climb past the second-floor landing and stop.
Kynan McGrath stands at the railing with a glass of bourbon, watching the floor below with quiet authority, as if he’s taking a moment to acknowledge the greatness of this thing he’s built.Physically, he’s a powerful man with dark blond hair and a neat goatee, but the British Royal Marines instilled in him qualities that a tailored jacket and a cocktail party can’t fully civilize, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Beside him stands a man I recognize from photographs but have never met in person, and photographs don’t do the job—Jerico Jameson, the original owner of Jameson.He’s at least six-six, midnight-black hair and a solidly built frame.His eyes are an unusual light green, almost bleached, and when they land on me, they have the quality of someone who has assessed threats for so long it’s become reflexive and permanent.
Kynan turns as I approach, and his expression warms.“Mercer.Was wondering when you’d make it up here.”He gestures between us.“Jerico, this is Cole Mercer.One of our anchors here in Seattle.”
Jerico extends his hand and I take it.His grip is exactly what you’d expect.“Good to finally put a face to the name,” he says.His voice is unhurried, the faint edge of a New England accent coming through.
“Honor to meet you, sir.”
“Kynan tells me your background is Special Forces and wildfire operations.”
“Yes, sir.Different kind of fieldwork.”
“But the same instincts,” Jerico says, and it isn’t really a question.
“Yes, sir.Same instincts.”
He nods once, satisfied, and I get the impression that’s about as much small talk as Jerico Jameson requires before he’s made up his mind about a person.
I glance between them, curiosity getting the better of me.“Can I ask how you two ended up building all of this?I know the broad strokes but not the actual story.”
Kynan and Jerico exchange the look of two men who have told a version of this story many times and still find it genuine.
“Helmand Province, 2007,” Kynan says.“His MARSOC unit got paired with my Royal Marine Commandos to clear Taliban out of a string of villages in the hills.”
“Dangerous work,” I say.
“And tediously miserable.”Kynan chuckles.
“The MREs alone were a war crime,” Jerico drawls.
Kynan’s mouth curves.“We spent about four months eating terrible food and trusting each other with our lives, which is really the fastest way to determine whether someone is worth knowing.”
“He was insufferably competent,” Jerico says, nodding toward Kynan.“Human intelligence work, threat assessment, reading people—I’d never seen anyone do it better.”
“He was insufferably everything,” Kynan agrees pleasantly.“But he kept us alive, so I forgave him for it.”
“When we both got out,” Jerico continues, swirling the liquor in his glass, “I founded the original Jameson Group out of Las Vegas.I needed a second-in-command and there was exactly one person I trusted enough for the job.”
“And you didn’t hesitate,” I say to Kynan with a grin.
“Not for a heartbeat.”Kynan takes a sip of his drink.“We ran it together for nearly a decade.Then Jerico decided he wanted a different kind of venture—”
“The pleasure industry called,” Jerico says, completely deadpan.
I blink.
“A sex club in Vegas,” he clarifies, and I blink again.
“Um… I had no idea,” I stammer.“That’s… quite the transition.”
Jerico’s head tips back and he laughs from his belly.“You can say that again.You’ll have to come by as my guest next time you’re in Vegas.”
I don’t even know what to say to that, so I look out over the railing at the lobby below—the crowd, the food, the liquor, the agents who gave up other lives to be here.“Must feel incredible,” I say, eyes cutting back between Kynan and Jerico, “seeing it grow into this.”
