Chapter 13 #3
Schematics. Technical drawings. A familiar circular shape with brushes and sensors—a cleaning robot. What looked, frankly, like a Roomba. But modified. The internal cavity had been hollowed out, replaced with a canister and dispersal mechanism.
Jayden’s blood ran cold.
“What is it?” Dakota stepped closer, reading over her shoulder.
“Modified cleaning robots.” Her voice came out hollow. “Six units, according to this. Designed to release aerosolized compounds through ventilation systems. They’re loaded with neurotoxin—the compound that Leonid Volkov developed in Bangkok.”
“Martin stole the obsidite canister in Montana to make these,” Ham said quietly.
She glanced at him. “The obsidite taken from their mine on Mariposa, in the Caribbean? The one that Phoenix tracked?”
Ham hesitated for a moment . . .
“I was briefed on the op, including the takedown of Tomas, the Bratva leader, in New York City.” Her voice lowered.
“And the attempt on our hacker’s life in Arizona just a few weeks ago.
I also know about the money stolen in Montelena over a year ago, the money that nearly got my bosses, Ziggy and London, killed. The Bratva used that to buy the mine.”
“It’s clearly a long game, with Alan Martin at the helm,” Ham said. “And Jones, Inc., is just the tip of the spear, the operations group connected with the Caleb Group.”
“I know about Logan Thorne’s covert organization,” Jayden said, glancing at Dakota. “I just didn’t know we were all friends.”
Dakota looked away.
Ham’s voice cut in. “We are when it comes to protecting our president. Why Martin and the Bratva keep taking hits at him, we don’t know. But we do know that their next attempt will be at the Opera House, tomorrow.”
Silence. Then, “I’ll bet these things are programmed to activate during the president’s speech. To send out the neurotoxin.”
“Mass-casualties event,” Ham said grimly. “Everyone in the Concert Hall.”
“Everyone in the building, potentially.” West had moved to look at the schematics. “Depends on how the ventilation carries it.”
Dakota’s face had gone pale. “The sniper, whoever has those rifle components—they’re the backup. If the Roombas fail, they take the shot manually.”
“Two-pronged assassination,” Jayden said.
“We’re working on an antidote from the sample we got in Thailand, but it’s not ready,” Ham said. “We need to find these devices and neutralize them.” He studied the schematics. “Where would they hide these things?”
“Maintenance areas,” Jayden said. “Service corridors. Anywhere cleaning equipment belongs and no one looks twice.”
“That’s half the building.”
“Then we search half the building.” She met his eyes. “We have eighteen hours.”
“And the sniper?” West asked.
“The assassin has been on that tour the whole time,” she said slowly. “Hiding in plain sight. We’ve been looking at the wrong people—Blake Brennan, Riley Stewart, the Novaks. All red herrings.”
“Then who?” West asked.
Jayden stared at the wall screen. The tour-group photos. The timeline of events. The list of suspects they’d compiled and crossed off one by one.
Something nagged at her. A face. A moment. Someone who’d been there all along, someone she’d dismissed . . .
Someone with a gender-neutral name.
Jayden’s blood went cold.
She looked at Dakota. He was staring at the photos, his expression shifting—the same realization dawning on his face.
“Vic,” they said at the same time.
Ham frowned. “Who?”
“A man from the plane,” Jayden said, her mind racing. “He was . . . deliberate. But always there too. He’s the one who told me about Dakota leaving the tour at the Opera House.”
“He also hung out at the end of the boat, near the dive equipment—seasick the entire trip,” Dakota said.
“He had access to the tour group from the beginning,” Dakota added. “He could have switched the bags in Fiji. Could have been tracking us the whole time.”
West was already typing. “Vic. Last name?”
“Simons,” she and Dakota said simultaneously.
He gave Jayden a small, grim smile.
West pulled up camera footage from the Opera House. “There—corner of the frame. Dark hair, watching the tour group.”
Ham studied the image, frowned. “It’s only half his face.
With the president arriving tomorrow, we don’t have time to be wrong.
But if this is our shooter . . .” He turned to face them.
“It’s divide and conquer. Black Swan finds Vic and neutralizes the sniper threat.
Jones, Inc., coordinates with Secret Service to sweep the ventilation system and stop the primary attack. ”
“Understood,” Jayden said.
Ham nodded. “Then let’s move. We’ve got eighteen hours to save the president.”
The briefing ended.
Ham moved away, talked on his phone coordinating with Secret Service, the two by the window heading out to prep vehicles.
West stayed at the kitchen island, studying the Roomba schematics as if he could will them to reveal their hiding spots.
Skeet had gone to check on radio equipment.
Jayden stood looking at the Opera House from the view through the window.
“Lynx.”
She turned. Dakota stood behind her, framed by the warm glow of the open-plan living space.
Lynx. Not Jayden. Her code name. The operative, not the woman.
Her chest ached at the distance in that single word.
“Yes?”
He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to maintain the professional distance he was clearly trying to keep.
“How did you become a Swan?”
The question surprised her. She’d expected more accusations. More anger. Not . . . curiosity.
“My sister,” she said quietly. “After Skylar died, I . . . needed something. A purpose. I couldn’t save her, but maybe I could save other people.
” She shrugged, the gesture feeling inadequate for the weight of what she was describing.
“The Black Swans found me. Trained me. Gave me a way to make the loss mean something. It felt right, given my dad’s military background. ”
Dakota was quiet for a long moment. “How much of it was true?”
She swallowed, met his eyes. “All of it. I . . . I didn’t want to sell you a story.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted, just for a moment, to be me. Or at least a part of me that . . .”
“That you wished you could hang on to.”
This man should be the sniper, with his precision. She shrugged again.
“And the things we talked about in Hunter Valley. And in Melbourne, at the penguin parade?” He held her gaze.
The penguins. Watching them waddle home in the darkness while Dakota held her hand. The conversation about home being wherever you want to come back to.
She looked at him—this man she’d suspected and trusted and fallen for, all at the same time. This man who’d nursed her through allergies and watched over her while she slept. This man she’d kissed like she meant it, because she had.
“I wasn’t playing you,” she said softly.
The words hung between them. Not a declaration of love. Not an apology that could fix what was broken. Just the truth—painful and inadequate and all she had to give. It was real, Bugsy.
Dakota’s jaw tightened. He nodded once—acknowledging, not forgiving. Then he simply walked away, leaving her standing there.
Alone. The way it should be.