London’s voice was in Jayden’s ear. “Anything?”
“I’ve been scanning rooftops for two hours. Nothing seems amiss.”
The drone feed played across her tactical glasses—heat signatures blooming orange and red against the gray of Sydney’s skyline. Maintenance workers on a hotel roof. Tourists at a rooftop bar, already drinking despite the early hour. A construction crew taking a smoke break near the Rocks. Seagulls wheeling over the fish market at Pyrmont.
No sniper preparing to assassinate the president of the United States. Which meant either the assassin wasn’t in position yet—or Jayden was looking in the wrong place entirely.
“I’m going to sweep sector seven again.” Jayden guided the drone east, skimming over the glittering water toward the cluster of buildings along Macquarie Street. The Opera House sat below her like a sculpture—white sails gleaming, forecourt already thick with security and the summit attendees. Somewhere inside, Dakota and the Jones, Inc., team were hunting Roombas.
Somewhere, Vic was preparing to kill.
If Jayden could find him.
If her gut—and Dakota’s—was right.
Nimue was still running facial recognition on the shot they’d gotten at the Opera House.
“Secret Service confirms all windows in the secured zone are locked down,” London reported. “No unauthorized access to any building with a sight line to the stage.”
“He’s not using a window.” Jayden swept the drone over another rooftop—empty except for HVAC units and bird droppings. “He’s smarter than that.”
“Then where?”
That was the question. Jayden had spent the past two hours asking it, and the harbor kept refusing to answer.
She shifted position on the safe-house roof, the terra-cotta tiles warm beneath her knees. The morning wind tugged at her hair, carrying the salt-and-diesel smell of the harbor.
In the distance, Circular Quay hummed with activity—ferries loading passengers, tourists snapping photos, joggers weaving through the crowds along the waterfront.
What if Vic wasn’t the shooter?
Aw, she should have paid better attention to him on the tour.
She’d spent a week watching Dakota while Vic smiled and chatted and gathered intel right under her nose. What if she was making the same mistake now? What if the real threat was somewhere else entirely and she was wasting precious time chasing the wrong lead?
“Lynx.” Ham’s voice cut through her spiral, also patched into the comms. “Status.”
“Nothing.” The word tasted like failure. “Rooftops are clear. Windows are locked. Secret Service has the perimeter sewn up tight. Either he’s not here yet, or?—”
She stopped.
The drone was passing over the water, heading back toward Bennelong Point, when something caught her eye. A boat. White hull, a yacht, maybe forty feet, anchored in the harbor about two hundred meters off the Opera House’s eastern side.
Nothing unusual about a boat in Sydney Harbour. There were dozens of them—sailing yachts, motor cruisers, a few fishing boats, and a myriad of water taxis ferrying tourists to and from the quay.
But this one was anchored. Stationary. In a position that gave it a perfect, unobstructed view of the Opera House’s deck—and the reception area beyond.
Where the president would greet the press.
Jayden’s heart stuttered.
“Ham, London, hold. I need to check something.”
She guided the drone lower, skimming over the water toward the white hull. The heat-signature scanner activated, painting the world in thermal gradients. The boat’s engine was cold—it had been stationary for a while. But on the forward deck, tucked behind the windscreen where casual observers wouldn’t notice . . .
A figure. Human-shaped. Prone position.
And beside them, the distinctive long shape of a rifle.
