Soli Deo Gloria
ONE
Jayden Pierce had been a lot of people in her lifetime. Most of them liars.
She stirred her Kona coffee and watched the Pacific roll in shades of turquoise and silver beyond the café railing. Picture-perfect. The kind of morning that made tourists believe Hawaii was paradise—a place where nothing bad ever happened and the biggest decision was whether to get the macadamia nut pancakes or the fresh papaya bowl.
Tourists believed a lot of things.
The thing about wearing masks was that eventually you forgot what your real face looked like. Three years of being Jayden Pierce—cheerful hotel inspector, harmless travel blogger, nobody worth a second glance—and sometimes she caught herself wondering if there was anything left underneath. Anyone worth knowing.
Probably not.
She spotted her boss, head of the Black Swan organization, Mystique, a.k.a. London, a.k.a. a list of other names, approaching through the breakfast crowd—tourists in aloha shirts, honeymooners holding hands, a family at the next table with three sunburned kids fighting over the last piece of bacon. None of them noticed the woman in the gray linen blazer making her way between the wicker tables. None of them would remember her face.
That was the point.
London slid into the chair across from her, ordered a black coffee from the passing server, and waited until the young woman had moved out of earshot.
“Alan Martin survived Bangkok.”
She said it the way she said everything—calm, measured, as if the words didn’t carry the weight of a hundred deaths that had almost happened and might still come.
Jayden set down her coffee cup. Around them, Waikiki buzzed with sunshine and surf reports and the blissful ignorance of people who had never heard of aerosolized neurotoxins.
Because, really, who wanted to admit that bioterrorism was an actual threat?
“And it looks like he might be on a flight to Sydney. Right before the president arrives,” London continued.
Alan Martin. The name landed in her chest and stayed there, sharp-edged. The rogue ex-CIA agent, a.k.a. master villain of whatever threat might be headed to Sydney.
“The presidential summit,” Jayden said. “The Opera House speech in a week. He’s targeting the president. Again.”
She’d never met the man in person, but his name circled nearly every op the Black Swans had shut down over the past three years.
“We’re certain President White is the target.” London’s eyes—dark with contacts, a favorite disguise—held hers. “The partial neurotoxin sample you stole in Bangkok. The aerosolization research Volkov was developing. It’s all connected, Lynx. Whatever Martin is planning, it ends in Sydney.”
Lynx. Her code name.
“What do you need me to do?”
London reached into her bag and slid a small stack of items across the table, half hidden beneath a cloth napkin.
“Updated neurotoxin analysis. Everything we’ve pieced together since Bangkok.” She lifted a small silver cross from the stack, the chain catching the light. “This contains the encrypted files. Location-locked—they won’t open until you reach Sydney. And information to connect with the team in Sydney.” She took off the necklace and handed it to Jayden.
“What team?”
“A covert team from the US. You’ll find out when you get there. They’ll help you if things go sideways.”
“If?” She took the chain and put it around her neck. It hung longer than the necklace she already wore, the one with the locket.
“When.” London didn’t smile. “Things always go sideways with Martin.”
The server returned with London’s coffee. They both went quiet, masks sliding into place—two friends catching up over breakfast, nothing to see here. Jayden picked up her fork and moved a piece of papaya around her plate. The fruit was perfectly ripe, sweet and bright on her tongue when she finally ate it, but her appetite had vanished.
When the server moved on, London leaned forward. “Whatever Martin is planning, the answer is in those files. Your job is to identify the threat and stop it.”
“And if I can’t?”
