CHAPTER 1 #2
And near the jetway, a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses was clutching his boarding pass with both hands, his face the particular shade of gray-green that came from anticipating fifteen hours of turbulence.
He caught her looking and offered an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I know I’m blocking the—” He stepped aside, nearly tripping over his own bag.
“Hate flying. Especially over water. All that ocean, you know? Nothing underneath you but waves and sharks and—” He stopped himself. “Sorry. I talk when I’m nervous.”
“Flying is statistically safer than driving,” Jayden offered.
“Tell that to my stomach.” He laughed weakly. “I’m Vic.”
“Jayden.” She smiled, warm and seemingly genuine. “And I’m sure you’ll be fine. The pilot’s been flying this route for years. They know what they’re doing.”
“That’s what my therapist says.” He adjusted his glasses, pushed them up his nose, adjusted them again. “She also says I should try deep breathing, but every time I try, I just think about how thin the air is at cruising altitude and then I hyperventilate more.”
“Maybe try focusing on something else. A book. A movie. The in-flight meal.”
“The in-flight meal.” His expression suggested she’d just recommended he eat cardboard. “You’re very kind, Jayden.”
She smiled again and moved toward the gate-check line, filing him away: IT-consultant type. Zero threat. The kind of person who apologized for existing and probably worked in an office somewhere, debugging code and drinking too much coffee.
Harmless.
She dismissed him entirely.
The gate-check line moved slowly. The aircraft swap had created chaos, and the agents were clearly operating on too little sleep and too much coffee.
Jayden counted at least six other passengers with bags identical to hers—gray, rolling, completely forgettable—including the man with military posture, who still leaned against the pillar, talking on his phone.
Up close, he was even more attractive. Broad shoulders, strong hands, the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what you were capable of. His eyes swept the line once—assessing, cataloging—and landed on her for a brief moment.
She looked away first. Let him think she was just another passenger, annoyed by the delay, thinking about nothing more important than whether she’d get an aisle seat.
The encrypted device pressed against her ribs, a constant reminder of what was really at stake.
When she reached the desk, the gate agent stopped her and made her gate check her bag. She surrendered it with the mild annoyance of a frequent traveler. The agent slapped a gate-check tag on the handle and directed her toward the jetway.
She watched her bag join the growing pile of identical gray luggage and felt something tighten in her chest.
Sheesh, she was just being paranoid. The critical materials were on her person.
She boarded the plane and headed to the bathroom in back, thanks to that morning’s coffee break. A long look in the mirror suggested she appeared just as rumpled and tired as she felt.
Calm down.
She didn’t know what to think about the pinch in her gut. Everything was fine. What could possibly go wrong between now and her nonstop flight to Sydney?
Dakota White hated going in blind.
He hated delayed flights and rerouted connections and aircraft swaps for “mechanical reasons” that no one bothered to explain.
He hated gate-checking his bag because some airline bean counter had decided the replacement plane needed overhead bins the size of shoeboxes. He hated not choosing his own seat.
It all started when the gate agent’s voice crackled over the PA system: “Attention passengers on Flight 847 to Sydney. Due to the aircraft change, overhead bin space will be limited. We’re asking passengers with larger carry-on items to bring them to the gate desk for complimentary checking.”
A collective groan rippled through the waiting area.
Dakota looked at his bag. The one containing his laptop with Opera House blueprints, venue specifications, and Jones, Inc., intel. The one he really, really didn’t want disappearing into the cargo hold.
The boarding area had filled since he’d arrived—a motley collection of tourists, business travelers, and a surprising number of people who apparently shared his taste in luggage. He counted at least five gray rolling bags identical to his own. Six, actually. No, seven.
Great. Because that wouldn’t cause any confusion at baggage claim.
What he hated most was the feeling crawling up his spine right now—that the universe had decided to shuffle the entire deck while he wasn’t looking.
Late-afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Honolulu airport terminal, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Just another layover in paradise.
Maybe he could blame his surly mood on the phone conversation he’d had with his boss, Hamilton Jones.
“All roads point to Sydney.”
Ham’s voice, tinny and grim, had crackled through the secure phone pressed to Dakota’s ear. Around him, passengers had shuffled toward Gate 34, a river of aloha shirts and rumpled business attire flowing past while he stood anchored near a pillar, watching.
Always watching.
“Alan Martin’s aliases are lighting up across the Pacific Rim,” Ham had continued. “Three confirmed sightings in the last week. Jakarta. Manila. The pattern suggests—”
“The Presidential summit.” Dakota had kept his voice low, his eyes still on the toddler he’d rescued earlier, the one in a dinosaur shirt who’d discovered that connected airport seats made an excellent climbing apparatus.
The kid’s mother had sat, oblivious to the pre-boarding option, thumbs flying across her phone screen.
“Two weeks out,” Ham had confirmed. “The President speaks at the Opera House. We’re not certain he’s the target, but it’s the most likely scenario. We need boots on the ground for advance assessment.”
The toddler had slid to the floor and then, seeing something, toddled off toward the busy walkway.
Aw. His sneakers—the kind with lights that blinked with every step—had blinked hard as he’d picked up speed.
Hey, mom—
But Dakota had already been moving.
He’d planted himself in front of the kid, catching his shoulder and turned him around. “Not that way, buddy.”
The whole maneuver had taken maybe two seconds. The kid had blinked up at him with huge brown eyes.
“Yes, it’s me again.”
The mother had finally looked up, her expression cycling through confusion, alarm, and mortified gratitude in the span of a heartbeat. She’d gotten up and dashed to the boy. “Oh my—I’m so sorry, I didn’t—thank you.”
“Everything okay?” Ham had asked over the phone.
“Just a runaway. You need me in Sydney. Got it. What’s my timeline?”
“The summit’s in two weeks, so we’ve got breathing room. Meet with West and the team when you land. Start the assessment. Figure out what Martin’s planning—if he’s planning anything at all.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we’ve wasted some frequent-flyer miles and you get to see the Opera House. Win-win.”
Dakota had almost smiled. Almost. “Copy that.”
He’d ended the call and slid the phone into his jacket pocket, then added himself to the check-in line already forming.
A woman with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail stood near the front, her own gray rolling bag positioned beside her.
She wore linen travel pants—wrinkled in the way that suggested she’d already been on at least one flight today—and a soft cardigan over a simple T-shirt.
A leather messenger bag hung from her shoulder, stuffed thick with what looked like notebooks.
Pretty.
He filed her away and joined the line.
The queue shuffled forward. Ahead of him, an elderly man with binoculars around his neck was photographing literally everything—the gate sign, the window overlooking the tarmac, a gecko that had somehow wandered into the terminal and was now sunning itself on the windowsill.
The Hawaiian shirt could be seen from space.
“Magnificent specimen,” the man murmured, snapping another photo of the gecko. “Hemidactylus frenatus, if I’m not mistaken. Common house gecko. Though what it’s doing inside the airport is anyone’s guess.”
Dakota blinked. “You’re a gecko expert?”
The man beamed. “Bird-watcher, actually. Gerald Hoffman. But I dabble in herpetology when opportunity presents itself.” He extended a weathered hand. “Headed to Australia for the spring migration. Should be spectacular this time of year.”
“Dakota.” He shook the offered hand. “And I’ll have to take your word on the birds.”
“Oh, you should see the riflebirds. The way they display—” Gerald launched into a detailed description of mating dances and plumage that Dakota only half-absorbed, his attention snagged by a man who’d just joined the line behind him.
Mid-thirties. Average build. Wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusted. Khaki pants, blue button-down—rumpled, slightly untucked on one side. The kind of guy who blended into the background of every corporate office in America.
He had the same gray rolling bag as Dakota.
The man caught Dakota looking and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry—am I standing too close? I never know the right amount of personal space in these lines.” He stepped back, nearly tripping over his own bag. “Sorry. Sorry. Long day.”
“You’re fine,” Dakota said.
“It’s just—I really hate flying. Well, hate is a strong word. More like barely controlled terror.” The man laughed, a nervous sound that came out slightly too high. “I’m Vic, by the way.”
Dakota’s threat assessment took approximately half a second. Nervous flyer. Probably worked in IT or accounting. Zero tactical awareness—he’d positioned himself with his back to the entire terminal, completely exposed.
Harmless.
“Long flight ahead,” Dakota offered, because the guy looked like he needed some kind of reassurance.