Code Name Sentinel (Jameson Force Security 2)

One of the doors to the Oval Office opens—a different one from the entrance we used—and Kynan and I turn that way. President Alexander walks in, followed by two important-looking men in dark suits who are chattering to him. The president’s eyes find mine, and he shoots me a welcoming but short smile as he moves to his desk. One man reminds the president he has another meeting in five minutes and the other puts something in front of him to sign, which President Alexander does without hesitation.

Then, just as quickly, the two aides melt out of the office, leaving the way they entered in a very seamless fashion.

The president moves around the desk, striding toward me. When he holds his hand out, I take it, and I’m not in the slightest surprised when it turns into a half hug rather than a formal handshake. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Cruce.”

“Good to see you, too, sir.”

The president pulls away, giving me a chiding smile. “It’s Jon. You can call me Jon.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Not going to happen, sir.”

He gives my hand an extra squeeze before letting it go.

I turn to Kynan. “Sir… this is Kynan McGrath, owner of Jameson Force Security.”

A formal handshake occurs, and the president says, “I’ve heard incredibly good things about you from some pretty high-ranking members of Congress. Seems your company and our government work very well together.”

“That we do, sir,” Kynan replies crisply. “And we want to continue that tradition.”

The president stares at Kynan with a fixed smile for just a moment, perhaps wondering just how far Jameson would go for its country. He then clears his throat, motioning to the two sofas sitting opposite each other.

Kynan and I sit on one while the president takes the other. While Kynan and I perch on the edge of the cushions, alert and ready to listen, the president leans back, casually crossing one leg over the other.

He picks at the pressed crease in the pant leg of his dark blue suit, brushing at the material before giving us his attention. “We’ve received some intelligence recently that has alarmed me on a personal level. It’s vague, and some of my advisors believe it’s too benign to take seriously at this time.”

“Chatter?” I take a guess, referring to the term signals intelligence uses to refer to intercepted communications. There’s lots of ways to get intelligence, but it’s often merely by listening in on other people talking. This happens all over the world.

The president nods. “Traffic analysis picked it up out of Oman.”

I blink in surprise while Kynan answers. “Not exactly a hotbed of terrorist activity as far as Middle Eastern countries go.”

President Alexander nods. “Which is why my advisors don’t think it’s something to worry about.”

“What exactly is the chatter?” I ask.

There’s no mistaking the way the president’s expression changes to one of personal worry, which doesn’t make sense to me.

He moves forward to the edge of the couch, rests his elbows on his knees, and focuses directly on me. “Our government has contracted with The Praemium Group to work on some groundbreaking developments in fusion energy. They are remarkably close to completing some theoretical formulas that, once tested, could provide the cleanest, most efficient energy the world has ever seen.”

“And the United States would own this technology?” Kynan asks.

“Technically, Praemium would own it, but our contract specifies they’d license it solely to us.”

“And what would the United States do with it?” This is important toward motivation and possibly identifying who would want this technology. My mind has already made the leap that the chatter picked up was perhaps about some other country stealing the technology.

The president doesn’t answer right away, and it’s obvious this is perhaps information he shouldn’t divulge. But then he leans forward a bit and drops his voice. “If I had my way, I’d share it with the countries that need it the most.”

“I take it that’s not popular with Congress?” Kynan asks.

The president chuckles. “Not with those in the other party.”

“So you want Jameson to what… set up some protective services around Praemium? The goal is to prevent some digital theft of the work already created?”

Kynan turns to me, continuing his line of thought. “Because that’s right up Bebe’s alley. She can fortify whatever they have as well as lay traps to capture the—”

“That’s not what I want Jameson for,” the president interrupts, and we turn to him in surprise.

He settles his gaze on me. “In fact, it’s mainly Cruce I want to hire, but he will need some backup as well.”

“For what?” I ask, brows furrowing in confusion.

“The main scientist working on this is my niece, Barrett Alexander,” he replies, his voice tense with worry.

“Barrie?” I ask incredulously, for some reason utilizing the nickname I always heard Alexander and his wife use when referencing her. “But I thought she worked out in California for some big think tank or something?”