Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Please, God, let her live.
It was all he had in him. Those words and, of course, Tiffany’s—Jayden’s, whoever’s, he didn’t care—reaching out to him with . . . I love you.
Yeah, please, God, let her live!
Dakota’s clothes were still damp, salt water and harbor grime stiffening as they dried, a reminder of the moment he’d helped pull her from the water—limp, bleeding, not breathing until suddenly, gloriously, she was.
The corridor was too quiet. Too still. Every beep of a distant monitor was a countdown, every squeak of shoes on linoleum was news he wasn’t ready to hear, and Dakota had worn a path in the floor, waiting for someone to tell him whether the woman he loved was going to live.
Ham was on the phone with London, his voice low and furious.
Dakota caught fragments between his own heartbeats: “Martin . . . escaped . . .” But he couldn’t focus on any of it.
Not while Jayden was on an operating table somewhere behind those doors, a bullet wound in her abdomen and his last words to her still hanging in the static between them.
I love you too, Tiffany.
It had felt right, calling her that, at least in the moment.
Now, he just wanted Jayden, his Jayden, back.
He paced. Five steps to the window, where the Harbour Bridge was visible in the distance—a reminder of everything that had just happened. Five steps back to the plastic chairs bolted to the wall. Turn. Repeat.
The surgery had been going for two hours. Or three. He’d lost track somewhere between the ambulance and the waiting room, somewhere in the blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell and the terrible, crushing weight of not knowing.
Ham ended his call with a sharp word and shoved the phone into his pocket. His face was tight with anger—the kind that came from being outplayed.
“He got away,” Ham said.
Dakota stopped pacing. “Who?”
“Alan Martin.” Ham leaned against the wall, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “The boat was a decoy. He ditched it in the ocean, got away on a tender. By the time our people got there, he was gone. Had that exit route planned from the beginning.”
“I know we talked about him at the briefing, but who is this guy?”
Ham was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off the wall and moved to stand beside Dakota at the window, looking out at the Sydney skyline.
“You remember the train heist? The one that kicked all this off?”
Dakota nodded. The derailment in Montana. Obsidite canisters stolen. It had been the beginning of everything—the reason Jones, Inc., was involved in any of this.
“There was a man involved,” Ham continued. “Working from the inside. Called himself James Cooper.”
“I know the name.” Dakota had read the after-action reports. Cooper had been a ghost—appeared, caused chaos, disappeared.
“Officially, James Cooper was a CIA operative declared dead maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. But not dead. Logan Thorne says that the CIA tried to have him killed—that CIA Director Crowley was behind it.” Ham’s voice was grim.
“They think, however, that this identity also belongs to the man calling himself Alan Martin. The name, the background, the credentials—all fabricated.”
“Crowley—the guy connected to the plot to kill President White during the inauguration. The one the VP-elect orchestrated.”
“Yeah. Somehow, Martin also turned up during that time, working for the Bratva. We’re not sure how, but he was apprehended, then escaped, and since then has plotted or orchestrated two more attempts on our leadership—a smallpox release at Disney World a few years ago—”
“The happiest place on earth?”
“Yeah, and then an EMP bomb on Air Force One around the same time.”
“He’s creative.”
“So creative he nearly pulled off the nuclear waste poisoning of the entire country of Lauchtenland during a European NFL game a couple years ago.”
“And now he’s making lethal Roombas.”
Ham nodded.
“This guy ever going to quit?”
“We need to find him. And stop him. For good.”
Dakota stared out the window. The bridge gleamed in the afternoon light, beautiful and indifferent. “Why? Why President White specifically?”
“We don’t know.” Ham’s voice was heavy with frustration. “Whatever grudge Martin has against White, he’s kept it buried. Personal? Political? Something that happened years ago? We’re digging, but we haven’t found it yet.”
“But he won’t stop.”
“No.” Ham met Dakota’s eyes. “He won’t stop until President White is gone. And I don’t know what comes next. But I know this isn’t over.”
Dakota turned back to the corridor, to the doors that led to the operating rooms, to the silence that was slowly driving him insane.
None of it mattered right now. Not Martin. Not the president. Not the next attack or the one after that.
All that mattered was the woman behind those doors.
He closed his eyes. Please. Let her live.
The surgeon emerged forty minutes later.
Dakota’s heart stopped. He couldn’t read her face—professional neutrality, the kind doctors learned to project regardless of the news they carried.
“Mr. Rivers?”
He stepped forward. “Yes.”
“She’s out of surgery.”
The words didn’t register at first. He’d been braced for the worst, for the news that would shatter him, and the relief hit so hard he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself.
“The bullet damaged her spleen,” the surgeon continued.
“We had to remove it. She’ll need to take it easy for a while—the spleen helps filter blood and fight infection, so she’ll be more susceptible to certain illnesses until her body adjusts.
But she’ll recover fully. She’s young, healthy. She should recover.”
Dakota let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. “Can I see her?”
The surgeon nodded. “She’s awake. She’s been asking for you.”
He was moving before she finished the sentence.
He found Jayden in the recovery room, her face pale against the white sheets. IV line in her arm, monitors beeping softly, bandages visible beneath the hospital gown. Her hair was tangled, dark circles under her eyes.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Her eyes found his the moment he stepped through the door and the texture in them shifted—relief, warmth, something deeper that made his chest ache.
“Hey, Tiff.”
She laughed—weak, pained, but real. “You remembered.”
“I told you, I like it.” He moved to the chair beside her bed, sat down, close enough to touch her but not quite doing it yet. Afraid that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Alive. Here. Together.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For saving me.”
“You saved me first.”
She frowned, confused. “I was the one in the water.”
“Not talking about the water.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed rail. “You made me believe that things might be more than what I see. That maybe faith isn’t just . . . hoping for something. That it’s choosing to trust even when you can’t be certain.”
She was quiet, watching him with those beautiful eyes.
“There was a bomb,” he said. “In the ventilation system. The last one—different from the others. Timer-based, no radio receiver. Nimue’s protocol wouldn’t work.”
“What did you do?”
“Analyzed it. Traced the circuits. Tried to figure out which wire to cut.” He paused. “And then I ran out of time. The timer was counting down and I didn’t know—I couldn’t know—which choice was right.”
“But you made one.”
“I prayed.” The words came out simply, without embarrassment.
“And I felt something—not a voice, not a vision. Just . . . knowing. Certainty, from somewhere I couldn’t explain.
” He met her eyes. “I did something my training said was suicide. And it worked. Because I trusted something I couldn’t analyze. ”
She reached out, her hand finding his. Her fingers were cool, the IV tubing trailing across the sheets, but her grip was strong.
“You taught me that,” he said. “Without even trying. That maybe the things I can’t see are just as real as the things I can.”
“Dakota . . .” She hesitated. “I’m complicated. You know that. My whole life is covers and lies and—”
“You’re not complicated.” He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. “You’re amazing. And beautiful. And brave.” He paused, his heart pounding harder than it had when the timer hit zero. “And my wife.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not without a real ring.”
“I got you a ring.”
“I’m going to need a diamond.”
He nodded, smiling, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. “I can make that happen.”
A beat. Her eyes searched his, wary, watchful.
And he gave her nothing of the same. Just a solid, sturdy, trust me. Then, “Listen. I don’t know what the future holds,” Dakota said. “But I’m going to have faith that it’s a good one. With you.”
She swallowed. “I want that.” Her voice was soft. “But it’s complicated. I like what I do.”
“Yeah, me too.” He leaned close. “But I think, if we put our heads together, we can figure it out. Come up with a plan.”
“A tactical assessment.”
“I’ll probably need more information.” He met her eyes.
Then he kissed her. Softly, careful of her IV, her bandages, her bruises. But underneath the gentleness, he tasted truth. Hope.
A happy ending.
When they finally pulled apart, she was smiling, her beautiful whiskey eyes shining.
Then her expression shifted. “Did you get Alan Martin?”
Dakota’s jaw tightened. “No.”
She was already trying to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at her stitches. “I need to get out of this bed.”
“Have you lost your mind?” He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, easing her back. “You’re not going anywhere. You just had surgery. Your spleen is in a medical waste bin somewhere.”
“Martin is—”
“Gone. For now. And you’re staying right here until the doctors say otherwise.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was a smile underneath. “Oh, really? Are you the boss of me now?”
“Yep.” He settled back in his chair, crossing his arms, making it clear he wasn’t going anywhere. “Doctor’s orders. My orders. Same thing.”
“They’re really not.”