Chapter 9
NINE
Jayden was asleep when he left—dark hair spread across white pillows, breathing slow and congested, knocked out cold by medication and exhaustion.
Dakota stood in the doorway longer than he should have, watching her sleep, and the terrible crack in his chest just kept widening, all sorts of warmth spilling inside.
Yeah, he was in trouble.
The Hunter Valley at dusk was all soft light and deep green, autumn vines. The kind of place that existed in wine advertisements and honeymoon brochures.
The vineyard estate sprawled across rolling hills, the main building a beautiful stone farmhouse-style structure with peaked roofs and a wraparound verandah.
Warm light spilled from windows. A pristine pool reflected the massive eucalyptus trees and the deepening colors of the evening sky.
Somewhere in the distance, other guests were laughing, clinking glasses, enjoying wine country the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
Dakota was ordering soup for Jayden, to take back to the room.
The restaurant was sophisticated and warm—woven pendant lights casting geometric patterns overhead, a massive wine cellar visible behind glass, a fireplace crackling against the evening chill.
The staff moved with quiet efficiency, and the woman at the counter smiled sympathetically when he explained that his wife wasn’t feeling well.
Wife. Felt weird, but he didn’t hate it. It meant commitment and tomorrow and . . .
Calm down, man. It was just a game.
“The chicken soup is excellent,” the woman said. “And I’ll add some ginger tea—good for congestion. Should we deliver it to your room?”
“I’ll take it. She’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake her.”
Another sympathetic smile. “Give us fifteen minutes. And I hope she feels better soon.”
Dakota thanked her and headed toward the luggage storage area. The tour’s bags had been delayed in Newcastle—some mix-up with the charter company—but Bonnie had assured everyone they’d arrive by evening. Time to see if that promise had been kept.
And if, finally, he might snag the missing gray bag before it got delivered to the rooms.
The storage room was tucked behind the main building, a practical space that didn’t match the estate’s polished aesthetic.
Dakota found his bag immediately—gray rolling case, tag still attached.
But Jayden’s bag—the one with the rifle components, the women’s clothes, the evidence that someone on this tour was planning something terrible—was nowhere to be seen.
He scanned the remaining luggage.
“Excuse me—”
Dakota turned. Lily Winston was speaking to one of the resort staff.
“—my bag still hasn’t arrived. Gray rolling case? I’ve been waiting since Cairns. Someone said it might have been mixed up in Fiji, but no one can tell me where it actually is.”
Dakota’s attention sharpened.
Funny, she didn’t look like a killer. But . . .
He approached, keeping his expression friendly. “Having luggage trouble too?”
Lily turned. “Oh, hey, Dakota. Yeah, it’s been a nightmare. I packed my best clothes for the wine tastings, and now I’ve been wearing the same three outfits since we left Hawaii.” She sighed. “The tour company keeps saying it’ll turn up, but . . .”
“What does your bag look like?”
“Gray. Rolling. Like everyone else’s, apparently.” She laughed without humor. “I should have bought something distinctive. Lesson learned.”
Movement at the edge of his vision made him turn.
Mags Winston was standing near the storage-room door, arms folded, watching them. She smiled, then turned and walked away.
Huh.
Dakota grabbed his bag and headed back toward the restaurant. The soup would be ready, and Jayden was waiting.
But he filed Mags and Lily away into the what-if category.
He found his soup waiting on a tray and carried it back to the room.
Jayden hadn’t moved.
Dakota set the tray on the bedside table—soup, tea, crackers, everything the kitchen had suggested for a cold—and stood over her for a moment, watching her breathe.
The room was warm, the fireplace in the living area casting flickering light through the open doorway.
Outside, night had fully fallen, the vineyard hills invisible now except for the distant glow of other buildings.
She looked so small in that enormous bed. Vulnerable.
He pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders, then stepped out onto the terrace.
The night air held a crisp coolness rife with the scent of eucalyptus and distant woodsmoke. Stars twinkled overhead, more than he’d seen in years—the benefit of being far from city lights. The pool glowed softly below, its surface still and reflective.
Dakota pulled out his phone and dialed.
Ham answered on the second ring. “Status?”
“I’m in Hunter Valley. Embedded with the tour group. Still tracking leads.”
“Wine country? What’s going on, South? The summit is in less than a week. I need more than ‘tracking leads.’”
“I’m aware of the timeline.” Dakota kept his voice low, conscious of the open windows and thin walls of vacation properties. “I recovered my materials. The Opera House schematics are secure.”
“Good. Now, tell me about the rifle components? Who do they belong to?”
“I don’t know. Still hunting that.” He didn’t mention that the bag had gone missing. For now.
A pause. Dakota could hear Ham thinking, running scenarios, calculating probabilities.
“We’ve got new intel,” Ham said finally. “Logan from the Caleb group passed it along this morning. The assassin is confirmed to be traveling with a tour group bound for Sydney. Professional, experienced, deep cover.”
“Our group.”
“Probably. There’s more. Profile suggests the operative is using a gender-neutral name. Something that doesn’t immediately identify as male or female. Makes it harder to track, harder to filter.”
Dakota’s chest tightened.
Jayden.
The name surfaced in his mind before he could stop it. Jayden. Gender-neutral. Could be anyone.
“Dakota? You still there?”
Cover protocol. The channel was open. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Gender-neutral name. Got it. Anyone else on your radar?”
“We’re cross-referencing tour manifests now. Should have more by tomorrow.” Another pause. “You sound distracted. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just tired. Long few days.”
“Stay sharp. We’re four days out. We can’t afford mistakes.”
The line went dead.
Dakota stood on the terrace, phone in hand, staring at the stars.
Gender-neutral name.
Jayden fit the profile. She was on a tour bound for Sydney. She had skills that didn’t quite match her cover story—the diving certification, the way she saw things. She’d been evasive about her past. She took phone calls she wouldn’t explain.
If he were running this operation objectively, if he were the analyst he used to be, she’d be at the top of his suspect list.
But he wasn’t objective anymore. Hadn’t been since Fiji. Maybe hadn’t been since Hawaii, when he’d sat down next to her.
He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. The woman sleeping in that bed, vulnerable and trusting—she wasn’t an assassin. She wasn’t capable of what Ham was suggesting.
Was she?
Dakota went back inside.
Jayden was sitting up when he came through the terrace door, blanket pooled around her waist, blinking groggily at the room-service tray.
“You got me soup.”
“And tea. And crackers.” Dakota closed the door behind him, sealing out the night air. “How are you feeling?”
“Like someone stuffed cotton in my head and then hit me with a truck.” She reached for the tea, wrapping her hands around the cup. “But better than I did on the train.”
She looked terrible, honestly—pale, eyes slightly glassy, hair tangled from sleep. Smeared makeup, no armor, no performance.
And she simply took his breath away.
“You took care of me.” She said it quietly, like the fact surprised her. “Ordered food. Let me sleep. Handled . . . everything.”
“That’s what—” He almost said husbands, but stopped himself. “That’s what partners do.”
“Partners.” A faint smile crossed her face. “Is that what we are?”
“True love, according to the tour group.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her tea. “Gerald’s been telling everyone about how romantic we looked dancing.”
She laughed—rough, congested, but real. “The perils of cover stories.”
“Could be worse. Could be siblings.”
“Much worse.” She took a sip of tea, then set it down. The humor faded from her expression, replaced by something more serious. “Dakota.”
“Yeah?”
“You should know something.” She wasn’t looking at him now—was looking at her hands, at the cup, at anything else. “I . . . I’m not really built for long-term . . . well, whatever this might turn into.”
He drew in a breath and couldn’t tell whether it was relief or ache that sifted through his chest. “Jayden—”
“I’m serious.” She looked up, and her eyes—those striking whiskey-brown eyes—were more vulnerable than he’d ever seen them.
“My last relationship . . . he was in the same industry. Travel. We met at a conference, hit it off. He was smart, funny, understood the lifestyle. The constant moving. The weird hours. The way work always came first.”
She paused, and Dakota waited.
“We were together for two years. I thought it was real.” Her voice went flat. “Turns out he was using me. Getting information about properties, client lists, security vulnerabilities. Selling it to . . . I don’t even know who. Competitors. Maybe worse.”
“What happened?”
“I found out. Confronted him.” A bitter smile. “He didn’t deny it. Just said it was nothing personal. That I was convenient.” She exhaled. “I reported him. He went to prison. And I learned that the people I let close are the ones who can hurt me most.”
Just like he’d been betrayed by the CO who hadn’t listened. By the system that had let three men die.
So yeah, he got it—the pain underneath her words.
“You should know . . .” She looked at him directly now. “Fair warning. I’m not good at this. The closeness. The trust. I tend to do better if I just keep moving. Keep things . . . casual.”
“You ruin things before they can ruin you.”