“I might be able to help with that.” Jayden touched the silver cross on a chain around her neck. “The intel from my organization. It’s location-locked to Sydney.”
“You haven’t opened it yet?”
“I got my bag back about five minutes before I walked away from you.” She held his gaze. “I haven’t exactly had time.”
“Hard to, when you’re sprinting.”
She rolled her eyes, but something flickered in his expression—probably the memory of her walking away. Okay, yes, running away. Five stars. Would recommend. Wow, she still couldn’t believe she said that.
“Then we need to open it,” he said. “Somewhere secure.”
“Take me to your leader.”
He looked at her—really looked, for the first time since he’d walked through the door. Not with anger or betrayal, but with something she couldn’t place.
Respect?
“Fine.”
“Good.”
The safe house didn’t look like a safe house. That was the point.
From the outside, it was just another Sydney brick bungalow—terra-cotta tile roof, white door, narrow concrete walkway flanked by bird-of-paradise plants and tropical ferns. On the kind of unassuming residential street where neighbors waved but didn’t ask questions.
Inside was a different story.
The interior had been gutted and rebuilt into an open-plan operations center disguised as a high-end rental. Warm timber floors gleamed under recessed lighting. A sleek walnut kitchen island doubled as a briefing station, its surface currently covered in surveillance photos and building schematics. A gray linen sofa faced windows, and coastal artwork—watercolors of waves and sailing boats—hung on the wall paneling that probably hid reinforced glass and signal jammers.
Twenty minutes after leaving the Grounds, Jayden stood in this deceptively comfortable space, trying to focus on the mission briefing instead of on Dakota standing three feet away.
If possible, he looked even more handsome with his fierce stance, folded arms, grim look.
What was wrong with her?
Ham—a solid, blond-haired man with the bearing of someone who’d seen too much and stopped being surprised by any of it—stood at the kitchen island, maps spread before him. West, the man she’d met at the Opera House, leaned against the counter near the espresso machine, arms crossed.
She recognized the third operative, introduced as Skeet, from their brief meeting in Bangkok. Recognition played on his face for a moment when she walked in, and she nodded. His mouth tightened.
He probably remembered her tackling him as he chased one Leonid Volkov through the dock clutter somewhere around the Chao Phraya River.
Unfortunately, the briefcase—her goal—had gone into the river with Leonid. Too bad because the Swans had needed that intel about a bioweapon Martin’s contact had developed.
Skeet might also try to remember that she’d saved his life when Volkov had a gun on his girlfriend.
As it turned out, the Swans and Jones, Inc., were sharing buddies, and they had grabbed the bioweapon intel from another source. Still, she wasn’t going to apologize for doing her job. Then . . . or now.
“So.” Ham’s eyes moved between Dakota and Jayden. “Black Swan. Jones, Inc. And an assassin neither of you managed to identify even after a week of surveillance.”
Jayden’s jaw tightened. “We were watching each other. The real threat slipped past while we were?—”
“Distracted,” Ham finished. “I read Dakota’s report. The bag with the rifle components—someone took it from the tour bus. Which means the sniper has their weapon.”
“But the sniper might not be the primary threat.” Jayden reached up and unfastened the chain at her neck, letting the silver cross pendant fall into her palm. Small. Unremarkable. The kind of tech that didn’t officially exist.
“What’s that?” West asked.
“Encrypted intel from the Black Swans. Location-locked—it would only unlock once I reached Sydney.” She turned the pendant over in her hands. “I haven’t opened it yet. I got my bag back right before . . .” She glanced at Dakota. “Right before everything fell apart.”
