Chapter 14 #2
They stood there in the darkness, the bridge glowing before them, and of course, the wind carried the ghost of her fragrance, that familiar sense of her standing beside him.
And it hit him. He did know her. He knew her laugh, and her strength, and maybe not the extent of her skills, but he knew that there was much more to Lynx, the operative.
“What’s your real name?”
She paused. A beat. Two.
“Tiffany.” A ghost of a smile crossed her face.
“Nice to meet you, Tiff.”
“I think I prefer Jayden.”
He glanced at her. “I dunno. I like it. Tiffany, the Black Swan. Feels like a good fit.”
She glanced at him. Nodded. “Yeah, maybe. I hadn’t thought about it.” Then she turned and touched his arm. “Promise you won’t die tomorrow.”
Aw. Shoot, now his throat clogged. “Yeah. You too.”
“Yeah.” She walked back into the house, leaving Dakota alone on the patio with the lit bridge and Ham’s words about faith and the terrifying truth that it didn’t matter what name she went by. He was terribly in love with a woman he might lose before he got the chance to really know her.
He stood there for a long time, watching the lights shimmer on the water, feeling the shift in his chest that he still couldn’t quite name.
Fact is, everything that happens to us, good or bad, is meant to draw us closer to God.
He drew in a breath, still hearing Ham’s voice.
You’re never wrong if you’re trusting in God for the outcome.
Maybe that was the point of all of this. Trust. Faith. And really, what choice did he have? Because all he—or anyone—could really do was stand in the dark and choose to believe.
Faith might be the hardest mission yet.
Sydney Harbour sparkled in the morning sun, a beautiful Saturday morning.
A morning that could end in blood if Jayden didn’t find the sniper in the next forty-seven minutes.
The president would arrive in less than an hour.
And Jayden had nada, nothing, nichevo.
From the roof of the Jones, Inc., safe house, Jayden had a commanding view of the city’s crown jewel.
The Opera House rose from Bennelong Point like a ship under full sail, its white shells catching the early light.
Ferries carved foamy trails across water that threw back the morning sun in bright, broken shards.
The Harbour Bridge arched against a cloudless sky, morning traffic streaming across its deck like blood through an artery.
Somewhere down there, a killer was waiting.
London’s voice was in Jayden’s ear. “Anything?”
“I’ve been scanning rooftops for two hours. Nothing seems amiss.”
The drone feed played across her tactical glasses—heat signatures blooming orange and red against the gray of Sydney’s skyline.
Maintenance workers on a hotel roof. Tourists at a rooftop bar, already drinking despite the early hour.
A construction crew taking a smoke break near the Rocks.
Seagulls wheeling over the fish market at Pyrmont.
No sniper preparing to assassinate the president of the United States. Which meant either the assassin wasn’t in position yet—or Jayden was looking in the wrong place entirely.
“I’m going to sweep sector seven again.” Jayden guided the drone east, skimming over the glittering water toward the cluster of buildings along Macquarie Street.
The Opera House sat below her like a sculpture—white sails gleaming, forecourt already thick with security and the summit attendees.
Somewhere inside, Dakota and the Jones, Inc. , team were hunting Roombas.
Somewhere, Vic was preparing to kill.
If Jayden could find him.
If her gut—and Dakota’s—was right.
Nimue was still running facial recognition on the shot they’d gotten at the Opera House.
“Secret Service confirms all windows in the secured zone are locked down,” London reported. “No unauthorized access to any building with a sight line to the stage.”
“He’s not using a window.” Jayden swept the drone over another rooftop—empty except for HVAC units and bird droppings. “He’s smarter than that.”
“Then where?”
That was the question. Jayden had spent the past two hours asking it, and the harbor kept refusing to answer.
She shifted position on the safe-house roof, the terra-cotta tiles warm beneath her knees. The morning wind tugged at her hair, carrying the salt-and-diesel smell of the harbor.
In the distance, Circular Quay hummed with activity—ferries loading passengers, tourists snapping photos, joggers weaving through the crowds along the waterfront.
What if Vic wasn’t the shooter?
Aw, she should have paid better attention to him on the tour.
She’d spent a week watching Dakota while Vic smiled and chatted and gathered intel right under her nose. What if she was making the same mistake now? What if the real threat was somewhere else entirely and she was wasting precious time chasing the wrong lead?
“Lynx.” Ham’s voice cut through her spiral, also patched into the comms. “Status.”
“Nothing.” The word tasted like failure. “Rooftops are clear. Windows are locked. Secret Service has the perimeter sewn up tight. Either he’s not here yet, or—”
She stopped.
The drone was passing over the water, heading back toward Bennelong Point, when something caught her eye. A boat. White hull, a yacht, maybe forty feet, anchored in the harbor about two hundred meters off the Opera House’s eastern side.
Nothing unusual about a boat in Sydney Harbour. There were dozens of them—sailing yachts, motor cruisers, a few fishing boats, and a myriad of water taxis ferrying tourists to and from the quay.
But this one was anchored. Stationary. In a position that gave it a perfect, unobstructed view of the Opera House’s deck—and the reception area beyond.
Where the president would greet the press.
Jayden’s heart stuttered.
“Ham, London, hold. I need to check something.”
She guided the drone lower, skimming over the water toward the white hull.
The heat-signature scanner activated, painting the world in thermal gradients.
The boat’s engine was cold—it had been stationary for a while.
But on the forward deck, tucked behind the windscreen where casual observers wouldn’t notice . . .
A figure. Human-shaped. Prone position.
And beside them, the distinctive long shape of a rifle.
Jayden zoomed in. The resolution wasn’t perfect—too much glare off the water—but she could make out dark hair, an average build, the professional stillness of someone who’d spent hours learning how to wait.
Vic.
“Found you,” Jayden breathed.
She scrambled to her feet. “Ham, I have eyes on the sniper. He’s on a boat—white hull, forty feet, anchored two hundred meters east of the Opera House. Repeat: Sniper is on the water.”
Why hadn’t the Secret Service sealed off the harbor? Except, maybe it wasn’t an option, the busy waterway needing to be accessible.
Still.
Static crackled in her earpiece.
“Ham? Do you copy?”
More static. A fragment of words: “—interference—harbor—repeat—”
Then nothing.
“London, I’ve lost contact with Jones, Inc. Can you relay?”
“Trying. The Secret Service has scrambled communications outside their own during the president’s visit. He’s arriving now.” A pause. “Lynx, wait for backup. Do not engage alone.”
“We should have open comms! We’re on the task force!” Jayden hit the stairwell at a run, taking the steps two at a time. “How long until you can get me support?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I can reach the harbor patrol.”
“The president speaks in”—she checked her watch—“forty-three minutes.”
“I know.” London’s voice was tight. “Lynx—”
“I can’t wait. He’s already in position. He could take the shot the moment the president walks on stage.”
Silence on the line. Then, “Understood. I’ll keep trying to connect you to the Jones, Inc. channel. Be careful.”
Jayden burst through the safe house’s service entrance and onto the busy sidewalk. Circular Quay was a hundred meters ahead, the ferry terminal crowded with morning commuters and tourists.
She ran.
The Manly ferry was just pulling away from Wharf 3 when Jayden reached the terminal. She sprinted down the gangway, ignoring the shout of a deckhand, and leaped the gap between the pier and the departing vessel.