Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Something didn’t add up, and Dakota couldn’t put his finger on it.
He stood at the window of their Melbourne hotel room, staring at the city lights without seeing them. Behind him, Jayden was curled on the bed with her phone, scrolling through something—news, maybe, or social media. Trying to decompress after the chaos of the evening.
She’d built the Wall of Fiji, but he didn’t need it. He wouldn’t sleep anyway.
The penguin parade had been perfect right up until it wasn’t. The little penguins waddling up the beach at sunset, the tour group charmed and delighted, everyone’s guard down.
And he’d nearly blown it—nearly told Jayden about the gun in the bag. Which suddenly made him feel deceptive. And sneaky and soiled.
He needed to tell her the truth.
But not until he figured out who Ellis and Devin Hart really were. Gender-neutral names—both of them. Delayed by the storm, possibly with luggage that got routed ahead of them.
Exactly the kind of movement he’d been watching for.
Coincidence? Dakota didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
“I need to check on something,” he said, turning from the window. “Make a call. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Jayden looked up from her phone. In the soft lamplight, she looked tired. Worried. “Everything okay?”
“Just work stuff. Won’t be long.”
She studied him for a moment—those whiskey-brown eyes seeing more than he wanted to show. But she didn’t push. Just nodded. “Be careful.”
Wow. See? He was a jerk. He crossed to the bed, bent down, kissed her forehead. “Lock the door behind me.”
He was in the corridor before he could second-guess himself.
He stepped into the quiet stairwell at the end of the hall, leaned against the concrete wall, and dialed.
Ham answered on the second ring. “Status?”
“We’ve got a situation.” Dakota kept his voice low, the stairs carrying even whispers. “A tour member was attacked in his room tonight.”
A pause. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. And we’ve got three new faces who joined the tour today. Ellis and Devin Hart, as well as a guy named Blake. Showed up right before we went to Phillip Island. The couple mentioned something about a delayed flight.”
“Gender-neutral names,” Ham said. “All three of them.”
“Yeah. I need intel. Room number for the Harts and anything you can find on all of them. I want to take a look.”
“Hold on. I’m patching you through to Coco.”
The line clicked, and then a new voice—female, competent, slightly amused. Their white hat hacker. “Dakota Rivers. Heard you were chasing ghosts in Australia.”
“Coco. I need a room number. The Westin Melbourne Hotel, guests named Ellis and Devin Hart. They would have checked in this afternoon.”
“Give me thirty seconds.” The sound of keys clicking. “Here we go. Room 412. Ellis and Devin Hart, checked in at 2:47 p.m. today. Paid with a Visa ending in 3892.”
“Anything else? Background?”
“Running it now. Give me a few hours and I can dig deeper. Want me to keep searching?”
“Do it. Send whatever you find to Ham.” He paused. “And Coco—thanks.”
“Stay safe, cowboy.” The line went dead.
Room 412. Fourth floor. Dakota pushed off the wall and headed for the elevator.
The lobby was quiet this time of night—just a bored clerk at the front desk and the soft murmur of conversation from the bar. Dakota paused at the elevator bank, surveying the space.
And there they were.
Through the glass doors of the hotel restaurant, two figures at a corner table. A woman with short dark hair, a man with broad shoulders—drinks in front of them, heads tilted toward each other in quiet conversation. The Harts.
They looked . . . normal. Relaxed. A married couple unwinding after a long day of travel and chaos. Not like people who’d just hit someone over the head.
But that was what deep cover looked like, wasn’t it? Normal. Unremarkable. Invisible until it was too late.
The Harts were occupied. Their room was empty. He might not get another chance like this.
He took the elevator to the fourth floor.
The corridor was quiet, muted carpet swallowing his footsteps. Halfway down the hall, a housekeeping cart sat outside an open door—fresh towels stacked, toiletries arranged, the sound of movement inside the room as someone worked, probably getting a head start on the changeover of an empty room.
Dakota walked past, easy, nothing to see here, eyes scanning. There—clipped to the side of the cart, a master key card. Standard hotel setup, the kind housekeeping used to access all rooms on their floor.
He palmed it without breaking stride. Kept walking. Turned the corner toward room 412.
The whole thing took maybe five seconds. Clean. Professional.
He shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving Jayden alone. She’d be fine.
Dakota pressed his ear to the door—silence—then tapped the master key. The light flashed green. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
The room was dark except for the Melbourne skyline glowing through the window. Standard hotel layout: king bed, desk, bathroom to the left. Two suitcases near the closet. Neither of them a gray bag. The Harts’ belongings scattered in the comfortable chaos of travelers who hadn’t fully unpacked.
Dakota’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He started to move toward the suitcases—and stopped.
The balcony door was open.
Not just unlocked—actually ajar, the glass slider pushed back a few inches. The curtains moved slightly in the night breeze, and the sounds of the city drifted in—distant traffic, the hum of air-conditioning from nearby buildings.
Dakota’s hand went to his hip automatically, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Right.
He crossed to the balcony door, moving carefully, and leaned out.
Melbourne spread out below—fourth floor, high enough to see the grid of lights and traffic, low enough that other balconies were visible on either side.
Dakota pulled back inside, frowning. The open door nagged at him—why would the Harts leave their balcony unsecured while they went to the restaurant? Carelessness? Forgetfulness? Or had someone else been here?
He turned to search the room.
The suitcases first. Two matching rolling bags in dark blue—practical, unremarkable. He unzipped the first one carefully, using his phone’s flashlight to see inside.
Clothes. Women’s sizes, neatly folded. Toiletries in a separate bag. A sleep mask. Nothing unusual.
Second suitcase: men’s clothes, larger sizes. More toiletries. A phone charger. Melatonin supplements. The detritus of jet-lagged tourists.
He moved to the desk. Plane tickets—Melbourne to Sydney, dated for tomorrow. The Aussie Adventures tour itinerary. A novel, dog-eared and pages marked. A Melbourne travel guide with pages marked for restaurants and attractions.
A laptop and a tablet sat on the desk. Dakota considered it, but hacking would take time he didn’t have—and would leave traces.
Toiletries in the bathroom, no prescriptions, no hidden compartments. Under the bed, just dust and hotel carpet. A few items hung up in the closet, shoes on the floor, nothing concealed.
Dakota stood in the middle of the room, heart hammering.
Nothing. It looked like the Harts were exactly what they claimed to be: a married couple on vacation. No weapons. No surveillance equipment. No flags on the surface. No rifle components hidden in secret compartments.
Either they were extremely good at hiding evidence, or they were innocent.
He was betting on innocent. Which meant the real threat was still out there—and he’d just wasted precious time searching the wrong room.
The open balcony door still nagged at him. Someone else was moving through this hotel tonight. Someone who wasn’t the Harts.
Dakota checked that everything was as he’d found it, then slipped back into the corridor.
The housekeeping cart still perched in the hallway, the housekeeper now two rooms farther down. Dakota dropped the master key back onto the cart as he passed—smooth, casual, invisible.
He took the stairs up to his floor, mind churning. The Harts were a dead end. The open balcony door was unexplained. Someone on this tour had attacked Howard, possibly looking for Jayden—and Dakota was no closer to knowing who.
And the summit was days away.
Maybe the entire thing was a red herring.
He reached his floor and walked down the corridor, pulling out his key card. Room 514. He tapped, pushed open the door—
And stopped.
The room was empty.
The bed, where Jayden had been curled with her phone—empty. The bathroom door open, lights off—empty. The balcony slider closed, curtains still.
“Jayden?”
His voice sounded wrong in the quiet room. Too loud. Too desperate.
He moved fast, checking everywhere—bathroom, closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. She wasn’t here.
Her bag still sat on the office chair. Her shoes by the bed. But the clothes she’d been wearing earlier—soft pants, a sweater—were folded on the bed.
She’d changed. Taken her phone. Taken her room key.
Left voluntarily.
But where? And why?
Dakota grabbed his phone, checked for texts. Nothing from Jayden. No missed calls. No explanation.
He texted her.
Dakota
Where are you?
Sent. Watched the screen. No response. No typing indicator.
The hollow feeling in his chest expanded, cold and sharp.
The open balcony door in the Harts’ room flashed through his mind.
What if it was someone after her?
Or what if she was after someone?
No—no. He’d already ruled that out, right?
Yes. No. He didn’t know. That was the worst part. He didn’t know.
Dakota stood in the middle of the empty room and felt the ground shifting under his feet.
He had to find her.
He had to know the truth.
And he had no idea where to start.
This was, without question, the worst idea Jayden had ever had—and she’d had some spectacularly bad ones in her three years of being a Black Swan.
Four stories up, pressed flat against cold stone, she inched along the narrow ledge with her fingers digging into the ornate molding above her head. The Melbourne night stretched out below—streetlights, distant traffic, the kind of drop that would kill her instantly if she slipped.
She was not going to slip.
Probably.