Chapter 7 #4
“Equipment failure.” His voice carried the edge of command. “I want to see every piece of gear that was on that rack. And I want to know who had access to the equipment room between dives.”
The dive master blinked. “Sir, equipment failures happen sometimes—”
“The O-ring was cut.” Dakota stripped off his BCD and set it down with barely contained fury. “That doesn’t just happen.”
Jayden sat on the bench, her legs unsteady, her mind racing. The equipment had been staged on deck during lunch. Anyone could have accessed it.
Anyone.
But not Dakota.
She watched him argue with the dive master, his whole body vibrating with protective fury, and something settled in her chest. A certainty she’d been fighting since Hawaii.
He wasn’t the threat. He couldn’t be. No operative who’d sabotaged her gear would react like this—immediate, instinctive, angry. An enemy would have let her struggle. Would have “tried to help” and conveniently failed. Would have worn the right face while letting her drown.
Dakota had saved her life. Without hesitation. Without calculation. Because that’s who he was.
Which meant the real assassin was still out there. Still on this boat. Still watching.
And maybe—probably—now knew that Jayden was more than just a hotel inspector.
Dakota returned to her side, his expression still thunderous. “They’re checking all the equipment. The captain’s logging an incident report.” He crouched in front of her, his hands gripping her knees. “How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Pain?”
“I’m fine.” She covered his hands with hers. “Dakota. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
“You could have—” He stopped. Swallowed. “If I hadn’t been right there—”
“But you were.” She squeezed his hands. “You were right there. And you didn’t panic. You just . . . handled it.”
“Training.” His voice was rough.
“More than training.” She held his gaze. “Thank you.”
Something shifted between them. The same something that had shifted in the hallway last night, and in the underwater cathedral that morning, and over pasta while they traded stories about grandparents.
He lifted a hand and brushed a wet strand of hair from her face. “Someone tried to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to find out who.”
The promise in his voice made her chest ache. He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know about the mission, the neurotoxin, her role in stopping the assassination of the president. But he was ready to hunt down whoever had targeted her, just because she mattered to him.
I could tell him, she thought. Right now. I could tell him everything.
But the boat was full of potential threats, and someone was watching, and this wasn’t the time or place for confessions.
“Dakota.” She kept her voice low. “Don’t make a scene. Please. If someone did this deliberately, we don’t want them to know we’re suspicious.”
He studied her face. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe, of the fact that her response wasn’t quite what a normal hotel inspector would say.
“Who are you, Jayden?” he asked quietly.
The question hung between them. Loaded with everything they hadn’t said.
“Someone who’s very glad you were diving next to me.” She gave him a smile that was more real than anything she’d offered in years. “And someone who owes you dinner when we get back to shore.”
Not an answer. And maybe they both knew it.
But Dakota nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He stood and extended his hand. She took it, let him pull her to her feet, and didn’t let go even when she was standing.
Around them, the other divers were surfacing, oblivious to what had happened beneath the waves. Mags and Lily Winston chatted about the ray they’d seen. The Novaks laughed at something private, their heads close together.
One of them had tried to kill her.
And Jayden had no idea which one.
She tightened her grip on Dakota’s hand and watched them all climb aboard, smiling and chatting and pretending to be tourists.
Just like her.
The boat’s engine rumbled to life. Two hours back to port. Two hours trapped on a boat with a killer who knew she was onto them.
This was going to be a very long afternoon.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, SEVEN YEARS AGO
Alan Martin had forgotten what hope tasted like. That’s what happened when you sold your soul—or at least, it felt like that—for revenge.
And then he’d met Sophia Randall.
CIA department director, an analyst who had access to intel he needed.
Yes, it had started as an op—Crowley’s orders: extract intel on the president’s movements, use the dating site setup to act as cover he needed to find her, woo her, develop her.
Simple. Clinical. The kind of work that hadn’t required him to feel anything.
But Sophia hadn’t cooperated with clinical.
She’d sent him a message at 2:00 a.m. once:
Sophia
Do you ever wonder if you’re too broken to be worth fixing?
He’d stared at his phone for ten minutes before typing back:
Alan
Every day.
And somehow, that truth had cracked something open. Hope, maybe.
Now three months into their relationship, Alan stood in the hallway of the Renaissance Hotel, fourteenth floor, key card in hand. The text had come three hours ago:
Sophia
Suite 1412. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Please come.
Three months of careful messages. Three months of pretending the loneliness was just part of the game. Three months of telling himself he was simply cultivating an asset—a CIA analyst with access to Vice President Isaac White’s travel schedules and security protocols.
He was done pretending.
Sophia was sharp and funny and she pushed back when he tried to charm her.
She’d told him about growing up in Seattle, about why she’d joined the agency—because she believed in something bigger than herself.
She’d asked him questions that had nothing to do with his cover and everything to do with the man underneath.
What do you dream about? she’d typed once.
A life I used to have, he’d answered.
For once, it hadn’t been a lie.
She wanted him to meet her parents. And for some reason, he’d said yes. Hence, the Seattle location.
Stupid. Reckless. He knew better.
He’d dressed for a date, not an op. Dark button-down, no tie. Good jeans.
Bought flowers.
Found the hotel and made his approach, waited, watched, saw her enter. His heart quickened. He waited more.
Finally headed inside, up to the suite.
The door clicked open at his touch.
Inside, the suite was quiet. A bottle of wine sat on the counter—something red, French, the kind you bring when you want the evening to mean something. Two glasses beside it.
Sophia’s coat was draped over a chair. Her laptop bag sat by the desk. Signs of someone who’d arrived, settled in, waited.
“Sophia?”
No answer.
The bedroom door hung ajar. Light spilled through the gap, and as he stepped closer, a smell lifted—copper and something else.
No—
His hand moved to his weapon before his mind caught up.
He pushed open the bedroom door.
Sophia lay on the bed. Black pants, white oxford—but the shirt wasn’t white anymore. Blood spilled from her throat, the bedding saturated, her skin gray. Her open eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing.
No.
No, no, no—
“She asked good questions.” The voice was cultured. Familiar. “I can see why you liked her.”
And he should have guessed that they’d be watching, that they knew. Because of course Russian Bratva assassin Damien Gustov stood in the shadows by the curtains, cleaning a blade wrapped in a hotel hand towel. Unhurried. He wore dark clothing, tactical, the uniform of a man who didn’t exist.
“You’re late,” Damien said. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind about her.”
Alan’s weapon came up. For the first time in years, his hands shook. “You—”
“Careful.” Damien didn’t flinch. “You’re the one who taught me to always have an exit strategy. You don’t think I’d come alone, do you?”
The words hit like ice water.
You’re the one who taught me.
His jaw clenched. Because yes, that’s how this had started.
Ten years ago, in Budapest, when Damien was the deputy minister’s son, with too much money and too many Russian friends, Alan had recruited him.
Spotted the potential in those cold eyes and decided to shape it.
Turned Damien Gustov from a corrupt diplomat’s kid into an asset.
Into this.
“Why?” The word scraped out of his throat.
Damien tucked the towel into his pocket, the blade disappearing somewhere beneath his jacket. “Because you forgot the rules, Alan. You started to care.” He spat out the word. “The Bratva noticed. They don’t appreciate their assets developing attachments.”
“She had nothing to do with—”
“She had everything to do with it.” Damien’s voice hardened. “She was an op. Intel extraction. That’s all she was ever supposed to be.” He tilted his head. “But you started . . . thinking.” He tapped his chest. “Forgetting who you are.”
Alan’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“She was also getting too close.” Damien lifted a shoulder. “Asking the wrong questions. Looking into the wrong files. She suspected the dating site was being used to activate sleeper agents.” A ghost of a smile. “She was onto you.”
. The site Alan had used to contact her.
His stomach dropped. She’d been investigating him. Or at least, the network he was part of. All those late-night messages, the connection he’d thought they were building—had she suspected? Had she been playing him too?
He swallowed.
“I saved you,” Damien said. “You should thank me.”
Alan shook his head, lowered his weapon. “I’m done.” His voice came out flat, dead. “Tell Crowley I’m out. I won’t—”
Damien moved.
Fast—faster than Alan remembered he could. The blade appeared from nowhere, sweeping toward his gun hand. Alan jerked back, squeezed the trigger, the shot going wide as Damien closed the distance between them.
They crashed into the dresser. The mirror shattered. Alan grabbed Damien’s wrist, twisted, but the younger man was stronger than he used to be, trained by people who made Alan’s methods look gentle.
“You made me,” Damien hissed in his ear. “Remember that. Every skill I have, you gave me.”