Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters


This series revolves around former Marine scout sniper, Alex Stewart, and his covert surveillance company, The TEAM, home-based out of Alexandria, Virginia. An obsessive patriot and workaholic, he created the company to give former military snipers like him, a chance at returning to civilian life with a decent job, security, and a future.

This is not a serial with each book ending at a cliffhanger. In the Company of Snipers is a collection of passionate love stories involving strong women and men who are tough enough to take on the world alone. Each is a stand-alone read, complete in itself.

Spoiler alert: Every story contains adult scenes including sexual situations (some explicit), language, and violence. I don’t write sweet romance, so be forewarned.

Book 1, ALEX, reveals how The TEAM came to be, as well as how Alex met Kelsey, how they fell in love and fought all odds to stay together. Each of the following books is a complete romance in itself, where, in the course of an active TEAM operation, one agent comes face to face with his or her demons. The men and women I write about are all patriots and warriors, dealing with what they’ve lived through or mistakes they’ve made.

It’s my hope that you will come to realize along with my heroes...

Love changes everything.


Five Years Earlier

USN SEAL Chief Petty Officer Jameson Tenney stopped firing at the cunning band of ISIL soldiers hidden behind boulders and rocks up ahead. He couldn’t believe what was taking place behind him. Two happy go-lucky boys, maybe six or seven years old, had appeared out of no-damned-where. Giggling and squealing from the bony back of a stout, three-foot-high, miniature donkey, they spurred it across the desert like a couple mischievous cowboys, away from the firefight Jameson was currently waging, and straight into no man’s land, the unforgiving desert.

Jameson and his six-man SEAL team had been inserted into the southern Iraqi desert Al-Hajarah, at zero-three-thirty hours this morning. Best time of day to do business. Undercover on a moonless night. Easy orders. Locate Professors Murdock and Upton, two United Kingdom geologists taken captive by ISIL extremists, preferably before they were beheaded.

The good professors had naively come to Iraq to study its harsh, arid topography, specifically the wadis, ravines, and channels that filled with spring runoff. They believed underground rivers ran deep beneath those wadis, sources that could ultimately be tapped to provide drinking water and irrigation for the poorer, more desolate parts of one of the most backward countries in the world. They also thought they were immune to the current political unrest sweeping that part of the planet.

But after three tours in this godforsaken, ruined land, Jameson knew better. These people didn’t want anything from the rest of the world but for civilization to leave them alone. That old saying: ‘Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime,’ didn’t apply here. The more dollars and experts the world’s talking heads poured into this country, the more the tribal leaders, village elders, and villagers hated them for it. ISIL owned them now. It was past time to leave.

But not yet.

“You’re shittin’ me,” Ensign Pierce Steed, handle Derby, hissed, his head also cranked around at the unbelievable sight. “What the fuck are they doin’ way out here?”

“Playing,” Jameson breathed into his helmet’s headset, his throat as dry as the air in this damned country. “They’re just kids. That’s what kids do.”

“In the middle of a gawddamned war? Now?”

“Looks like it. I’m going after them.”

“Damn, LT just called in an airstrike!”

“Understood. But I’ll be back before the Warthogs show.” With the kids, by hell.

Warthogs, aka USAF close ground support, the A-10 Thunderbolt attack aircraft.

“Gawddamn it, Saint. Don’t do it.”

Saint was the SEAL handle Jameson hadn’t chosen and never wanted. He’d been tagged that because of his choirboy looks and his early promotion, what some guys called a miracle. What others considered a pain in the ass.

He blew a worried breath between pursed lips now. It was a damned eerie scene. The two little boys were laughing like pranksters, kicking and slapping sad little Eeyore’s sides, making him run on his stiff, stubby legs. The donkey was as tall as he was round. With every smack, puffs of dust lifted off his furry rump and shoulders. The boys bounced, their dirty brown legs spread too wide for them to stay seated much longer. He kept running. They kept