Chapter 9 #3
Jayden looked up. A woman stood beside her table—mid-thirties, athletic build, honey-brown hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. She wore hiking clothes that looked expensive and well used, and her smile was open and friendly in a way that immediately put Jayden on alert.
“Sorry?”
“You and your husband.” The woman gestured vaguely toward the cottages. “I saw him carrying you in yesterday. So sweet. Real romance-novel stuff.” She laughed. “I’m Riley, by the way. Riley Stewart.”
Riley.
Gender-neutral name.
Jayden’s pulse kicked up a notch, but she kept her expression warm. “Jayden Pierce. And that was less romantic than it looked—allergic reaction. He was playing nurse.”
“Still.” Riley slid into the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. “He looked genuinely worried.”
“He’s . . .” Jayden searched for the right word. “Attentive.”
“Lucky girl.” Riley flagged down a server and ordered coffee with the easy confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted. “I’m traveling solo. Gets lonely sometimes, watching all the couples.”
Traveling solo. Another red flag?
“What brings you to wine country?” Jayden asked, keeping her voice casual.
“Oh, you know. Needed a break. Work’s been crazy.” Riley accepted her coffee with a grateful smile. “I’m in corporate consulting. Travel constantly. Sometimes you just need to stop and smell the grapes, you know?”
Corporate consulting. Vague enough to mean anything. The kind of cover story that could explain any schedule, any destination, any sudden departure.
Jayden filed it away. “How long have you been on the tour?”
“I just joined. Missed the reef, unfortunately—flight delays.” Riley sipped her coffee. “But I’ve heard the Sydney leg is the real highlight. The Opera House tour is supposed to be incredible.”
The Opera House.
Jayden’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ve heard the same.”
Riley opened her mouth to say something else, but her gaze shifted to something over Jayden’s shoulder. Her smile widened.
“Speaking of husbands . . .”
Jayden turned.
And her brain simply . . . stopped.
Dakota stood in the restaurant doorway, scanning the room for her.
He’d showered—his hair was still damp, pushed back from his forehead.
He wore a fitted charcoal Henley that did criminal things to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal tanned forearms. Morning stubble darkened his jaw.
His eyes found hers across the room, and something in his expression eased—relief, maybe, that she was okay. That she was still here.
He smiled.
Jayden forgot how to breathe.
This is dangerous, some distant part of her brain warned. This is exactly how operatives get killed.
She’d been trained to compartmentalize. To observe without feeling, to analyze without attachment. She’d spent years building walls, learning to see people as assets or threats or irrelevant bystanders.
Dakota Rivers was none of those things. He was just . . . him. Walking toward her through golden morning light, looking at her as if she were the only person in the room.
Oh my.
“Morning.” He reached her table and bent to press a kiss to her temple—casual, affectionate, the kind of thing a husband would do. His lips were warm against her skin. “You look better.”
“I feel better.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected. “Dakota, this is Riley Stewart. She just joined the tour.”
Dakota turned to Riley, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Riley shook it, her smile bright. “Your wife was just telling me about your nursing skills. Very impressive.”
“She’s a terrible patient.” Dakota pulled out the chair beside Jayden and sat, close enough that his knee brushed hers under the table. “Keeps trying to take care of herself.”
“Imagine that.” Riley laughed, then glanced at her phone. “I should let you two enjoy breakfast. Nice meeting you both—see you later!”
She was gone before Jayden could respond, weaving through tables toward the exit.
Dakota watched her go, his expression unreadable. “New friend?”
“Just joined the tour. She had flight issues.”
Dakota flagged down a server and ordered coffee, then turned back to her. The playful-husband act dropped away, replaced by something sharper. More focused.
“So,” he said, “is wine on the agenda today?”
Jayden shook her head. “No. We need to find my suitcase.”
His eyebrow lifted. “How?”
“It’s time to inspect the hotel.”
Dakota stared at her for a beat. Then his mouth curved—slow, appreciative, slightly dangerous. “I knew you were trouble.”
The way he said it—warm, admiring, like trouble was exactly what he wanted—made her stomach flip.
“I have credentials,” she said, ignoring the flutter. “Hotel-inspector credentials. If this resort is part of the international inspection program—and a place this nice probably is—they’ll have to give me access.”
“Access to what?”
“Guest rooms. Luggage storage. Anywhere I need to go.” She met his eyes. “If my bag is on this tour, I’m going to find it.”
Dakota was quiet for a moment, studying her. “All right,” he said finally. “Let’s finish breakfast. Then let’s go see how much trouble you can actually cause.”
The front-desk manager was a crisp woman in her fifties named Margaret, with silver hair and the kind of professional smile that said she knew how to handle guests. Jayden approached her with credentials in hand and the confident bearing of someone who did this for a living.
Because she did. Sort of.
“Jayden Pierce, International Hospitality Standards Board.” She slid her credentials across the polished wood. “I’m conducting quality assessments for the Asia-Pacific region. I believe your property is enrolled in our inspection program?”
Margaret’s smile flickered—the briefest moment of concern before professionalism reasserted itself.
“Of course. We take our participation in the program very seriously.” She examined the credentials, then typed something into her computer.
“Yes, here we are. Fairview Estate Vineyard Resort, enrolled since 2019.”
“Wonderful.” Jayden smiled. “I’ll need access to several areas of the property. Guest rooms included, where occupants have given blanket consent through the program’s participation agreement.”
“I understand. I’ll assign you a manager escort—Mr. Harrington is available this morning. He can accompany you and provide access as needed.”
“Perfect.”
Margaret made a call, spoke in hushed tones, then returned her attention to Jayden. “Mr. Harrington will meet you in the lobby in five minutes. Is there a particular area you’d like to start with?”
Dakota edged up behind her—steady, silent, watching Jayden work.
“The guest cottages,” she said. “Starting with the room assigned to Riley Stewart.”
Margaret nodded, made a note, and handed over a master key card.
Five minutes later, Jayden stood outside cottage seven with Dakota at her shoulder and a nervous-looking Mr. Harrington—young, eager, clearly hoping this inspection would go smoothly—hovering behind them.
“Ready?” Dakota’s voice was low, meant only for her.
Jayden looked at the door. Behind it: answers, maybe. Evidence. Proof of who Riley Stewart really was—innocent tourist or Spectre in disguise.
Or another dead end in a mission that was running out of time.
She slid the key card into the lock.
The light turned green.
She pushed open the door.
WASHINGTON, DC – INAUGURATION NIGHT
The tuxedoed elite of Washington, DC, never looked at the waiters.
That was the first thing Alan Martin had learned in this business—not tradecraft, not weapons, not the dozen ways to kill a man with household objects. Just this: Wear the right uniform, and you become invisible.
Tonight, the uniform was a white jacket and a silver tray.
The occasion was the inaugural ball for President-elect Isaac White and his new vice president, Reba Jackson.
The mission was simple: surveillance. Positioning.
A key card delivered to a contact who would give hotel access to a Chechen warlord named Tsarnaev, who waited with information that could reshape the balance of power.
The kind of work that didn’t require Alan to feel anything.
The scar above his eyebrow itched. It always did when he was about to do something he’d regret.
Damien’s parting gift. A reminder, carved into his flesh, that he didn’t get to care about anyone. That everything he touched turned to ash.
He adjusted his grip on the serving tray and moved through the crowd.
The grand ballroom of the Patriot Hotel dripped with American iconography—crystal chandeliers the size of small cars, gold-leaf molding, massive flags flanking a stage where the new president had given his victory speech an hour ago.
Now the string orchestra played Cole Porter while senators danced with lobbyists and cabinet nominees air-kissed donors.
The smell of expensive perfume and champagne couldn’t quite mask the metallic undercurrent of power. Everyone in this room wanted something from everyone else. Alan just didn’t pretend otherwise.
He deposited an empty tray at a service station, picked up a fresh one loaded with champagne flutes, and scanned the room.
Secret Service agents in tuxedos, earpieces barely visible.
Plainclothes FBI—he could spot them by the way they held their champagne glasses without drinking.
VP-elect Jackson herself, radiant in burgundy, laughing at something the Secretary of Defense had said.
And there, near the east entrance, a face that made his stomach drop.
York Newgate.
Alive. Whole. Standing beside a blonde woman who was laughing at something he’d said.
Signe Kincaid. His mark in Italy who’d gotten away. And of course he knew her from before, too. A captive in the camp of a Georgian warlord.
Alan’s hands tightened on the tray. The champagne flutes trembled, crystal singing against crystal.
York had survived.