CHAPTER 1
Jayden Pierce had been a lot of people in her lifetime. Most of them liars.
She stirred her Kona coffee and watched the Pacific roll in shades of turquoise and silver beyond the café railing.
Picture-postcard perfect. The kind of morning that made tourists believe Hawaii was paradise—a place where nothing bad ever happened and the biggest decision was whether to get the macadamia nut pancakes or the fresh papaya bowl.
Tourists believed a lot of things.
The thing about wearing masks was that eventually you forgot what your real face looked like.
Three years of being Jayden Pierce—cheerful hotel inspector, harmless travel blogger, nobody worth a second glance—and sometimes she caught herself wondering if there was anything left underneath. Anyone worth knowing.
Probably not.
She spotted her boss, head of the Black Swan organization, Mystique, aka London, aka a list of other names, approaching through the breakfast crowd—tourists in aloha shirts, honeymooners holding hands, a family at the next table with three sunburned kids fighting over the last piece of bacon.
None of them noticed the woman in the gray linen blazer making her way between the wicker tables. None of them would remember her face.
That was the point.
London slid into the chair across from her, ordered a black coffee from the passing server, and waited until the young woman had moved out of earshot.
“Alan Martin survived Bangkok.”
She said it the way she said everything—calm, measured, as if the words didn’t carry the weight of a hundred deaths that had almost happened and might still come.
Jayden set down her coffee cup. Around them, Waikiki buzzed with sunshine and surf reports and the blissful ignorance of people who had never heard of aerosolized neurotoxins.
Because, really, who wanted to admit that bioterrorism was an actual threat?
“And it looks like he might be on a flight to Sydney. Right before the President arrives,” London continued.
Alan Martin. The name landed in her chest and stayed there, sharp edged. The rogue ex-CIA agent, aka master villain of whatever threat might be headed to Sydney.
“The Presidential summit,” Jayden said. “The Opera House speech in less than two weeks. He’s targeting the President. Again.”
She’d never met the man in person, but his name circled nearly every op the Black Swans had shut down over the past three years.
“We’re not certain President White is the target, but it’s the most likely scenario.” London’s dark eyes held hers. “The partial neurotoxin sample you stole in Bangkok. The aerosolization research Volkov was developing. It’s all connected, Lynx. Whatever Martin is planning, it ends in Sydney.”
Lynx. Her code name.
“What do you need me to do?”
London reached into her bag and slid a small stack of items across the table, half-hidden beneath a cloth napkin.
“Updated neurotoxin analysis. Everything we’ve pieced together since Bangkok.” She tapped a slim black device. “Encrypted files. Location-locked—they won’t open until you reach Sydney. And information to connect with the team in Sydney.”
“What team?”
“A covert team from the US. You’ll find out when you get there. They’ll help you if things go sideways.”
“If?”
“When.” London didn’t smile. “Things always go sideways with Martin.”
The server returned with London’s coffee.
They both went quiet, masks sliding into place—two friends catching up over breakfast, nothing to see here.
Jayden picked up her fork and moved a piece of papaya around her plate.
The fruit was perfectly ripe, sweet and bright on her tongue when she finally ate it, but her appetite had vanished.
When the server moved on, London leaned forward. “Whatever Martin is planning, the answer is in those files. Your job: identify the threat and stop it.”
“And if I can’t?”
London’s eyes were steady. “Then a lot of people die.”
No pressure. Just the usual stakes—mass casualties, international incident, the weight of lives she’d never meet pressing down on her shoulders.
She nodded, hiding the sudden swipe of fatigue.
Not the kind of fatigue that a vacation fixed. The bone-deep kind. The kind that came from years of being everyone except yourself, from carrying secrets that could get people killed, from smiling at strangers while calculating threat levels and exit strategies.
Fellow Swan Emberly had gotten out and retired to a quiet life with her fiancé, trading dead drops and covert ops for remodeling her beach house in Florida.
Sometimes Jayden let herself imagine what that would look like.
A life where she could just...be. No masks.
No covers. No wondering if today was the day her luck ran out.
One more mission. Finish Alan Martin and his game once and for all. Then maybe—maybe—she could find out who Jayden Pierce actually was when she wasn’t pretending.
“One more thing.” London’s voice dropped. “We’ve been compromised before. Luis played us for years. We found out the hard way in New York. Trust no one but yourself and your own instincts, Lynx. If something feels wrong—”
“It probably is.”
London nodded. Something flickered in her expression—concern, maybe. The closest thing to warmth Jayden had seen from her handler in three years of working together.
“Your flight leaves in four hours,” London said, standing.
She dropped enough cash on the table to cover both their meals and a generous tip.
“The encrypted device stays on your person at all times. Not in checked luggage. Not in your carry-on. On you.” She paused.
“And, Lynx. Don’t mess this up. Alan Martin is relentless.
He won’t stop his attempt to assassinate President Isaac White until it’s done. ”
“Why is he so driven? Is it political?”
“I don’t know,” London said. “But find him, stop him, and if you can, apprehend him.”
“I’ll get it done,” Jayden said softly.
London nodded once and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of tourists heading for the beach.
Jayden sat for another moment, watching the waves break against the shore. The trade wind carried the scent of salt and plumeria, warm against her skin.
Almost as if she were really on vacation.
She gathered the items London had left, the encrypted device went into the interior pocket of her cardigan, flat against her ribs.
The burner phone joined her regular phone in her bag.
The neurotoxin analysis—printed on paper that would dissolve in water, old school but effective—tucked into a notebook filled with hotel-inspection notes.
Jayden Pierce, hotel inspector. On her way to evaluate properties in Australia. Nothing suspicious about her at all.
She left enough cash to cover her uneaten papaya bowl and headed for the airport.
Jayden made her way through the Honolulu International Airport terminal with the unhurried pace of someone who’d learned that rushing drew attention.
Her gray rolling bag—the same brand and color as approximately forty percent of the travel population—trailed behind her.
Her backpack hung from her shoulder, heavy with notebooks and her tablet and the weight of everything London had given her.
Gate 34 was chaos.
A cluster of passengers surrounded the desk as a harried gate agent made announcements about an aircraft change, overhead bins, and complimentary gate checking.
She found a spot near the windows where she could watch both the gate desk and the main corridor, settled into one of the hard plastic chairs, and started cataloging.
An elderly man with binoculars around his neck was photographing a gecko on the windowsill. Tourist. Harmless. Probably a birdwatcher, based on the cargo shorts with fourteen pockets and the Hawaiian shirt.
A couple with matching luggage tags—European, by the cut of their clothes—stood near the gate desk. The man had military bearing. The woman was quieter, watchful, one hand resting on his arm. Newlyweds, maybe. Or operatives using marriage as cover.
She made a mental note to watch them.
A man near the pillar caught her attention.
Dark hair, strong jaw, the kind of stubble that said he’d been traveling for a while and hadn’t bothered to shave.
He stood with his weight balanced, shoulders relaxed but ready.
His eyes moved in that constant sweep she recognized—exits, threats, civilians.
Military. Or former military. The posture never really went away.
He had a phone pressed to his ear, and even from across the gate area, she could see the tension in his jaw. Business call, probably. Or something else entirely.
He was also, objectively speaking, attractive. The kind of face that would make most women look twice. Strong features, warm brown eyes that probably crinkled when he smiled—not that he was smiling now.
Not relevant. Focus.
A toddler in a dinosaur shirt was attempting to scale a row of connected seats while his mother scrolled her phone, completely oblivious. Jayden watched the kid wobble, already calculating the trajectory of the inevitable face-plant—
The man with the military posture moved—fast, efficient, no wasted motion. He caught the kid midtumble, set him upright on the floor, and stepped back before the mother even looked up.
Good reflexes. Protective instincts. The kind of person who noticed trouble before it happened and stepped in without being asked.
Interesting. Also: definitely attractive. Which was still not relevant, hello, but apparently her brain hadn’t gotten that memo.
She pulled out her phone and pretended to scroll through emails while continuing her sweep of the gate area.
A British woman in white linen and statement earrings was photographing everything—the gate sign, the coffee kiosk, the backs of strangers’ heads. Travel writer or influencer. Annoying but probably not dangerous.