Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

spot on. Mother liked to talk, and she’d always been nosey. He wondered what else Mel knew now, and how he’d found TEAM HQ in the first place. Alex didn’t advertise, and unless a person knew where to look, there was no street-side signage that indicated a covert business resided in Alexandria.
Mother, real name Sasha Kennedy, had become another problem all together. She’d taken a lengthy hiatus after her daughter Dempsey’s death. But when she’d come back from her South Pacific vacay, she hadn’t been the same person. Right out of the gate, she’d told Alex she’d only stay on if he made her a partner. She honestly believed her elite financial status made that promotion from office assistant to deputy director obvious. Alex disagreed. Not only had she hidden her extreme wealth from The TEAM, including her so-called best friend, Ember Dennison, Mother had also hidden the fact that she had a severely handicapped teenage daughter. While Mother had been intimately involved in every other TEAM member’s personal tragedies, successes, and lives, she’d kept hers secret.
The revelation about Dempsey had come to light recently. By then, the young woman had been dying, and The TEAM hadn’t yet recovered from the depth of Mother’s betrayal. Also, she’d never served, and that was a hard stop for Alex. Just because she was good with computers and video games did not make her a better warrior than Mark, Harley, or Ember. They knew what it meant to put their lives on the line. Mother knew how to hack encrypted codes and create successful computer games. Her genius had made her wealthy and Alex appreciated her skillset. But when it came to running The TEAM, Alex demanded loyalty, and Mother had let him down.
“Thanks, Mark. I don’t know when I’ll be in. I can’t leave Kelsey and the kids alone while Mel’s hanging around.”
“No worries. I’ll handle the office. You do what you have to. Just be careful. Libby’s got one of her feelings. There’s something not right about your old man.”
Alex huffed. “You’re telling me.”

Chapter Three
Tie on straight? Check.
Shoes polished? One could only hope they gleamed like Jameson meant them to.
Teeth brushed and hair cut, not short, high, or tight, just trimmed enough to look professional and befitting this much sought-after job? He ran his fingers over his head, hoping he looked reasonably presentable. Check, check, and double check.
Dark glasses? Oh, yeah. Nearly forgot them.
Hooking his extra-dark, round-framed spectacles over his ears, Jameson Tenney faced the reflection in the bathroom mirror he could no longer see, and imagined he looked good enough. That was what Walker Judge had said when he’d told him to haul ass down to King Street and apply in person. That Alex Stewart didn’t want perfection, just men and women who were good enough. That’s precisely what Jameson was.
Finishing up, he tucked his loaded .44 Magnum into the well-worn leather holster beneath his suit jacket, under his left arm. Circumstances might take a man out of the Navy, but they never took the SEAL out of a man. It just didn’t work that way.
Ready to be all he could be, Jameson clasped his trusty graphite cane in his right hand, and left his comfort zone behind. The cane transformed with the flick of his wrist, from a compact, barely noticeable, umbrella-length nightstick, into five feet of lightweight freedom. It was also a weapon, not that he’d needed to defend himself lately. Or ever would again. Life was different now that he couldn’t see. Not dangerous so much as disadvantageous. Unfortunately—big sigh—his rough and tumble days were behind him. And that was just plain—inconvenient.
He strode down the hallway to the building’s secure entrance, his stick feeling his way forward. There was no guard at the front door, just a smart lock with network connectivity, that allowed Jameson the freedom of unlocking the entry with one click of the remote entry key fob in his suit jacket pocket.
Out of the building and onto the sidewalk he went, confidently stepping into the promise of another bright, sunny morning he couldn’t see, but could surely feel. He lived on the first floor of a small apartment complex in Rosemont, Virginia, a quiet burb west of Alexandria. A quick walk eastward on Braddock Road took him to the nearest metro station. From there, the Blue line, Franconia-Springfield train would take him south, then bring him home again, hopefully with a new job.
The trick now was getting on the right train. But he’d had help for that since he’d first moved to Virginia, after the incident, to be closer to his parents. Metro Agent Jersey Townsend looked out for oddballs like Jameson.
Sure enough. “Yo, Navy!” Jersey bellowed from across the platform, his deep voice a boisterous “glad-to-see-ya!” that Jameson never tired of hearing. “Good luck with your job interview today. Hope you knock ’em dead!”
Probably not the best thing to wish on a former Navy SEAL sniper, but Jersey didn’t know that part of Jameson’s past, and what did it matter? Jameson’s gunslinging days were behind him, but life was still damned good, and he meant to live it.
“Thanks, buddy!” he yelled back, hoping he wasn’t bellowing into some poor stranger’s ear. “How’s Portia this morning?”
“Still waiting for that big old watermelon belly of hers to pop. I’m bringing cigars when it does. You smoke?”
“Hell, yeah. I drink and womanize, too,” he called across the crowded platform. “Am I in the right place to board your train or is it running late again?”
Metro stations were noisy places, especially on game days, during rush hours, or when the trains blew through. But always exciting. Yet Jameson could tell Jersey’s footsteps from everyone else’s when he closed in. At last, his big, warm hand landed on Jameson’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how you do it, but you’re standing right where you should be. I guess you already know that, don’t you, Navy? So why do you always ask?”
Jameson shrugged. “Guess because it gives you something to