Chapter 14 #3
She landed hard on the deck, stumbled, caught herself on a railing. Tourists stared. A mother pulled her child closer. Jayden ignored them all, pushing through the crowd toward the starboard side.
The ferry swung wide around Bennelong Point, giving passengers a perfect view of the Opera House’s iconic sails. Cameras clicked. People pointed. A tour guide’s voice crackled over the PA system, explaining the building’s history.
Jayden wasn’t listening. She was watching the water, tracking their course, calculating angles and distances.
There. The yacht, still anchored, still motionless. From this angle, she made out the flybridge, the tinted windows of the salon below. No visible movement on deck—Vic must have shifted position or moved below.
The ferry’s route would take them within fifty meters of the boat. Close enough.
Jayden stripped off her jacket, kicked off her shoes. A businessman in a suit gave her a startled look.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “Just going for a swim.”
The ferry cleared the boat’s stern. Jayden climbed over the railing.
And jumped.
The chill speared through her, a thousand needles that sank in fast. For one terrifying moment, she couldn’t tell which way was up.
Then her head broke the surface, and she was gasping, treading water, orienting herself toward the white hull forty meters away.
She kicked hard, away from the wake of the ferry churning around her, and swam. Hard, fast strokes, cutting through the harbor chop. The ferry continued on its course, although she heard sirens sounding.
Sorry, guys.
She stilled, turned, and cast a look at the Opera House. She spotted the security cordon, the arriving dignitaries, the podium being set up for the president’s address.
Twenty-eight minutes, tops. She kept swimming.
She reached the boat’s stern, grabbed the swim platform, hauled herself up. Water streamed from her clothes, her hair plastered to her face, and she shook—adrenaline or cold, she couldn’t tell which.
No sign of Vic on the empty deck.
Jayden drew her weapon—thank you, Jones, Inc.—and moved forward, bare feet silent on the teak decking. Past a couple jet skis, a large seating area, a grill.
The salon door hung slightly ajar.
She paused, listening. No sound from inside. Maybe Vic was still on the forward deck. Maybe Jayden could come at him from behind, end this before it started.
She pushed open the door.
The salon was all polished wood and leather upholstery, the kind of casual luxury that cost more than most people made in a year. Tinted windows filtered the harbor light into something soft and golden.
And sitting on a sofa at the center of it all, a glass of whiskey in his hand, was a man she recognized from a hundred intelligence briefings.
Lean. Dark-haired. Handsome, in a different world. Eyes the green of deep water—cold and utterly without mercy.
Alan Martin.
Jayden’s blood turned to ice.
“Ah,” he said, swirling his whiskey with the casual air of a man welcoming an expected guest. “The infamous Lynx. I was wondering when you’d find us.”
Behind her, she heard movement. Too late. Something hard pressed against the back of her skull—the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel.
“Drop the weapon,” Vic’s voice said. Calm. Professional. Not the friendly stranger from the tour anymore.
Jayden’s gun clattered to the floor.
Alan Martin rose from his chair, still holding his whiskey, and walked toward her with an eerie, unhurried confidence.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, something European. “Six months of research, gone in a splash.”
Jayden said nothing. Her mind was racing—calculating distances, cataloging exits, looking for any advantage she could find.
Not a lot.
Alan tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. “I have to admit, I admire the audacity. The commitment. Very dramatic. Very Black Swan.”
“What do you want?” Jayden’s voice came out steadier than she felt.
“What I’ve always wanted. To finish what I started.” He smiled—a thin, cold expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “The president dies today. The summit collapses. And the chaos that follows . . . Well. Let’s just say we have plans for that too.”
“Jones, Inc., will stop you. They’re inside the Opera House right now, hunting your bio bombs.”
“Are they?” Alan’s smile widened. “How nice for them.” He leaned closer. “But there’s always a backup to the backup. You should know that by now.”
Her jaw tightened. The sniper.
Alan’s gaze shifted. He stepped back, gesturing to Vic. “This time, you don’t get to run away. This time, you get to watch.”
Vic grabbed Jayden’s arm, wrenching it behind her back. Pain lanced through her shoulder.
“Eighteen minutes,” Alan said, checking his watch. “That’s how long until the president takes the stage. That’s how long you have to sit here, knowing you failed.” He raised his whiskey in a mock toast. “Lock her in the closet until the show.”
Hands led her to a small storage closet, shoved her in, and slammed the door. She sank to the floor.
Please, Dakota, find those Roombas.
She’d figure out a way to do the rest, even if she had to break some promises.