Gap Cold Control Jacket Novels & Stories

He takes up one of his bags, unzipping the top. "I told you, there's not a lot of point giving me a gun. I really don't know what to do with one." Klempner's fishing through the bag. He looks up from under his brows. "You might surprise yourself, James, if it came to it. But it's not a gun I'm thinking of." He tugs out what looks like a plain black gilet, except it has velcro straps at the sides. "Put this on." He smiles at James' blank expression. "Kevlar body jacket. It won't turn you into Superman, but it will give you some protection against gunfire."

-ADRIAN POV- I've built my career on the principle that control is everything. It's the only thing that separates the people who succeed from the people who get swept away by circumstance and emotion. Control is knowing exactly what will happen before it happens. Control is building systems that work regardless of external chaos. Control is keeping the world at arm's length so nothing can touch what I've carefully constructed. And I'm very, very good at control. Which is why the assignment Marcus just handed me is simultaneously the most strategic opportunity of my career and the most genuinely irritating thing that's happened to me in months.

Eric had arrived the night before and rested the night at a hotel, so he had recovered from the jetlag. "Go buy a thicker jacket later!" Layla glanced at the jacket he was wearing and noticed that it was a brand from Aryadelle. The temperature in Cambrode was much lower than that of Aryadelle, and jackets from Aryadelle would not be enough to fend off the Cambrode's freezing cold. The temperature on the mountain would be lower than where they were, and Eric would fall sick if he went outside wearing just a thin jacket.

It doesn’t even feel like work if you get to enjoy the sun after a long day of murder and mayhem, but my mystery person chose this location, so here I am. At least I am dressed enough to keep myself somewhat warm. My hair is down to keep my ears covered, while my black long-sleeved turtleneck shields my neck from the elements. My cropped, wide-sleeved mustard yellow cashmere jacket with a wide collar that hangs over my shoulders, provides an extra layer of warmth to my torso, while my legs fend for themselves with only black high-waisted leggings and black suede pointed-toe scrunch 3-inch ankle boots to act as barriers between me and this unpleasant wind chill.

His movements were a little clumsy, but filled with utmost seriousness. “The Bear Clan is much colder than Blood Moon Pack, with huge temperature swings,” he said, picking up a windproof jacket and continuing to fold it. “You need to bring proper cold-weather gear. I had heating insoles added to your boots. All the frostbite ointment is in the side mesh pocket.” I paused my document-checking and stared at his busy back. He was wearing a simple gray home T-shirt today. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric, revealing firm, powerful lines.

“You are soaked. You must be freezing.” Florence hesitated, her hands trembling slightly from the cold and from everything that was inside her head. She stared down at her damp clothes, her mind racing with thoughts of her own vulnerability. The stranger, sensing her hesitation, gently placed the jacket around her shoulders. The warmth of the fabric was a comforting contrast to the cold she had been feeling. The oversized jacket enveloped her, providing a sense of security and protection.

The brakes screamed like banshees, sending showers of sparks into the dark cavern. "Atmospheric temperature: minus forty-five," Robert read from the console. "Wind chill: minus sixty. If you have exposed skin, it freezes in thirty seconds." "Perfect weather for a business meeting," Jack said, pulling on a heavy white parka. He winced as he slid his arm into the sleeve. The sling was hidden underneath. To the outside world, he had to look whole. "Are we sure the 'Arctic Fox' unit is here?" Ben Carter asked, shivering despite his three layers of thermal underwear. He hugged his laptop bag like a life preserver.

Jennings estate kept its own gear for the apocalypse, and we were trying it on for size. Elky pulled open a steel locker tall enough to lock a basketball star in. Inside: rows of matte-black jackets, tactical vests with more pockets than one can use, and boots that looked like they’d walked through blood and back. He tossed a vest to me. It hit with a thud, like it carried all the promises men don’t keep, but good gear does. “Kevlar weave,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Stops a .45 if the shooter sneezes while pulling the trigger. Anything bigger, you’ll still dance.”

"All of our jackets were personally bought by Mom—top-tier outdoor brands. The one you wore yesterday may look identical on the outside, but the material inside is of the cheapest quality. "This kind of fabric wouldn't stand a chance against Treiceland's sub-zero temperatures. Prolonged contact with skin would even cause redness and itching. Where did you get this jacket?"

I stuff my hands into the gloves and stand there, rigid, worried if I so much as open my mouth to breathe, I’ll say something I’ll deeply regret. Beneath the parka, I’m wearing the same yellow thermals I’m intimately familiar with but have never tried on. They’re soft but thick and don’t have much stretch–specially made to store heat and wick sweat away–according to Alex’s thorough explanation only moments ago. He stuffs a beanie over my hair, mumbles a curse when he accidentally covers my eyes, and adjusts the hat just a bit.