Jayden’s blood went cold.
She looked at Dakota. He was staring at the photos, his expression shifting—the same realization dawning on his face.
“Vic,” they said at the same time.
Ham frowned. “Who?”
“A man from the plane,” Jayden said, her mind racing. “He was . . . deliberate. But always there too. He’s the one who told me about Dakota leaving the tour at the Opera House.”
“He also hung out at the end of the boat, near the dive equipment—seasick the entire trip,” Dakota said.
“He had access to the tour group from the beginning,” Dakota added. “He could have switched the bags in Fiji. Could have been tracking us the whole time.”
West was already typing. “Vic. Last name?”
“Simons,” she and Dakota said simultaneously.
He gave Jayden a small, grim smile.
West pulled up camera footage from the Opera House. “There—corner of the frame. Dark hair, watching the tour group.”
Ham studied the image, frowned. “It’s only half his face. With the president arriving tomorrow, we don’t have time to be wrong. But if this is our shooter . . .” He turned to face them. “It’s divide and conquer. Black Swan finds Vic and neutralizes the sniper threat. Jones, Inc., coordinates with Secret Service to sweep the ventilation system and stop the primary attack.”
“Understood,” Jayden said.
Ham nodded. “Then let’s move. We’ve got eighteen hours to save the president.”
The briefing ended.
Ham moved away, talked on his phone coordinating with Secret Service, the two by the window heading out to prep vehicles.
West stayed at the kitchen island, studying the Roomba schematics as if he could will them to reveal their hiding spots.
Skeet had gone to check on radio equipment.
Jayden stood looking at the Opera House from the view through the window.
“Lynx.”
She turned. Dakota stood behind her, framed by the warm glow of the open-plan living space.
Lynx. Not Jayden. Her code name. The operative, not the woman.
Her chest ached at the distance in that single word.
“Yes?”
He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to maintain the professional distance he was clearly trying to keep.
“How did you become a Swan?”
The question surprised her. She’d expected more accusations. More anger. Not . . . curiosity.
“My sister,” she said quietly. “After Skylar died, I . . . needed something. A purpose. I couldn’t save her, but maybe I could save other people.” She shrugged, the gesture feeling inadequate for the weight of what she was describing. “The Black Swans found me. Trained me. Gave me a way to make the loss mean something. It felt right, given my dad’s military background.”
Dakota was quiet for a long moment. “How much of it was true?”
She swallowed, met his eyes. “All of it. I . . . I didn’t want to sell you a story.”
