Chapter 5 #2
The ladies’ room was empty—a small mercy. White tile, fluorescent lights, the sharp smell of industrial cleaner. She found the largest stall, locked the door, and hoisted the bag onto the fold-down changing table.
The tag read J. PIERCE. Her name in block letters. The tourist company had clearly added it. Her own flimsy tag must have fallen off.
But as she opened it, something felt off. The weight was different. Heavier on one side.
She unzipped it.
And froze.
Men’s clothes. A charcoal Henley, neatly folded. Dark jeans. A pair of running shoes. A toiletry bag in black leather.
And tucked in the top, a file folder with Dakota Rivers written on the front.
She’d grabbed Dakota’s bag instead of her own.
Which meant he probably had hers.
Her stomach dropped. Her bag—the one with her cover materials, her camera equipment, the neurotoxin analysis tucked inside her inspection notebook. If he searched it the way any suspicious person would search an unexpected bag—
Calm down. The analysis was hidden. The notebook looked like standard hotel-inspection notes. He’d have no reason to dig deeper.
Unless he was exactly as observant as she suspected he was.
She stared at his bag. His clothes. His things.
She should close it. Respect his privacy. Find him and swap bags like a normal person.
But she wasn’t a normal person. She was an operative. And operatives didn’t pass up opportunities for intelligence, hello.
Her hands moved before her conscience could stop them.
The Henley was soft, well worn. She lifted it to her face without thinking and breathed in. No cologne. Just clean laundry and something warm underneath—soap, maybe. Him.
Good. Cologne gave her headaches. Made her sinuses swell. She’d spent more than one mission miserable because an asset bathed in Acqua Di Giò.
But still, what was she doing?
She set the shirt aside and kept searching.
The toiletry bag held standard items. Razor—quality brand, well maintained.
Toothbrush in a travel case. A bottle of ibuprofen, half empty.
Deodorant. No prescription medications, no suspicious substances.
Everything organized, efficient, practical.
The belongings of someone who traveled often and traveled light.
The running shoes were broken in but not worn out—someone who exercised regularly, kept his gear in good condition.
At the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a T-shirt, she found it.
A tablet.
She powered it on. Password protected. Of course.
For a long moment, she stared at the lock screen. A scenic photograph—forest reflected in a still lake, morning mist curling across the water. Peaceful. Personal. The kind of image a person chose because it meant something to them.
His grandfather’s fishing spot. It had to be. The place he’d never gotten to take the older man one last time.
Her throat tightened.
She could stop here. Should stop here. He hadn’t given her any real reason to distrust him.
He’d been kind. Protective. Genuine. He’d held her hand through a crash landing and apologized for his nightmares and smiled at her over breakfast in a way that had made her forget she was supposed to be someone else.
But she’d been fooled before. And her instincts were the one thing she couldn’t afford to second-guess, especially when those instincts were compromised by feelings she had no business having.
She pulled out her secure phone and dialed London.
“Lynx.” Her boss’s voice emerged crisp, professional. “Status?”
“In Cairns. Flight to Sydney in three hours. I need Nimue.”
A pause. “What’s the situation?”
“I have a tablet that belongs to someone I’ve been traveling with. Security consultant. He’s been . . . helpful. But I need to verify that he is who he says he is.”
“Helpful how?”
Jayden hesitated. How could she explain it? The crash landing. The shared cabin. The way she couldn’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard she tried.
“He’s been in proximity since Hawaii,” she said instead. “Close proximity. I need to make sure that’s coincidence, not design.”
“Understood. Hold for Nimue.”
A click. Then a new voice—younger, sharper, with the faint hum of multiple monitors in the background. “Nimue here. What am I looking at?”
“Standard tablet. Password protected. Lock screen shows a mountain landscape.”
“Model?”
Jayden checked. Gave her the information.
“Old model. Security’s not great. Okay, can you connect it to your phone? Use your phone charger.”
Um, packed in her carryon. “I don’t have it.”
“Okay, well, when you get to your destination, find one and we’ll see what you can do. Anything else in the bag?”
The bathroom remained empty—a small blessing. The last thing she needed was someone walking in on her hacking a stranger’s tablet in an airport stall.
Not a stranger. Dakota.
She pushed the guilt down. This was the job. This was who she was.
Jayden rooted through the suitcase and found a folder labeled “Sydney.”
Her breath stilled when she opened it.
Blueprints. The Sydney Opera House, rendered in precise architectural detail. Multiple files—floor plans, sight lines, security positions, evacuation routes.
Her heart stuttered.
“Nimue. I’m looking at blueprints for the Sydney Opera House.”
“Take photos and send them to me.”
She set the file down and took the pictures. Uploaded them to Nimue via text.
“Got ‘em. Okay, well, these look like standard blueprints for a security tech. They look like assessment materials.”
“So he’s clean?”
“Looks like it.”
Jayden sat back. Let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
He was legitimate. Security consultant. Weird though that he was working the same venue she was.
Still. He was exactly who he said he was.
A pause. “You sound relieved.”
Did she? She shouldn’t. Professional verification of a potential asset. Nothing more.
“Just glad I don’t have to add another complication to this mission.”
“Uh-huh.” Nimue didn’t sound convinced. “London wants you in Sydney yesterday. Your contact will be waiting.”
“I’ll be there.”
She ended the call. Her breath eased out, and with it, the knotting of her chest. That was what she’d hoped for, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself.
But she’d still violated his privacy. Gone through his things.
She repacked the bag carefully—Henley, jeans, shoes, toiletry kit, tablet wrapped in the T-shirt exactly as she’d found it. Zipped the bag closed.
Now she needed her own bag back. Which meant finding Dakota before his flight left.
She grabbed the rolling bag and hurried out of the restroom.
The airport was chaos.
In the twenty minutes she’d spent in that bathroom stall, something had changed.
People clustered around departure boards like survivors around a life raft.
Staff hurried between gates, their professional smiles strained.
Announcements crackled over the speakers in that particular tone of voice that meant nothing good—delayed, canceled, please stand by for further information.
Through the massive windows, Jayden could see the sky darkening. Clouds rolling in from the coast, heavy and gray, carrying the promise of the same kind of storm system that had stranded them in Fiji.
Not again.