Jayden zoomed in. The resolution wasn’t perfect—too much glare off the water—but she could make out dark hair, an average build, the professional stillness of someone who’d spent hours learning how to wait.
Vic.
“Found you,” Jayden breathed.
She scrambled to her feet. “Ham, I have eyes on the sniper. He’s on a boat—white hull, forty feet, anchored two hundred meters east of the Opera House. Repeat: Sniper is on the water.”
Why hadn’t the Secret Service sealed off the harbor? Except, maybe it wasn’t an option, the busy waterway needing to be accessible.
Still.
Static crackled in her earpiece.
“Ham? Do you copy?”
More static. A fragment of words: “—interference—harbor—repeat?—”
Then nothing.
“London, I’ve lost contact with Jones, Inc. Can you relay?”
“Trying. The Secret Service has scrambled communications outside their own during the president’s visit. He’s arriving now.” A pause. “Lynx, wait for backup. Do not engage alone.”
“We should have open comms! We’re on the task force!” Jayden hit the stairwell at a run, taking the steps two at a time. “How long until you can get me support?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I can reach the harbor patrol.”
“The president speaks in”—she checked her watch—“forty-three minutes.”
“I know.” London’s voice was tight. “Lynx?—”
“I can’t wait. He’s already in position. He could take the shot the moment the president walks on stage.”
Silence on the line. Then, “Understood. I’ll keep trying to connect you to the Jones, Inc. channel. Be careful.”
Jayden burst through the safe house’s service entrance and onto the busy sidewalk. Circular Quay was a hundred meters ahead, the ferry terminal crowded with morning commuters and tourists.
She ran.
The Manly ferry was just pulling away from Wharf 3 when Jayden reached the terminal. She sprinted down the gangway, ignoring the shout of a deckhand, and leaped the gap between the pier and the departing vessel.
She landed hard on the deck, stumbled, caught herself on a railing. Tourists stared. A mother pulled her child closer. Jayden ignored them all, pushing through the crowd toward the starboard side.
The ferry swung wide around Bennelong Point, giving passengers a perfect view of the Opera House’s iconic sails. Cameras clicked. People pointed. A tour guide’s voice crackled over the PA system, explaining the building’s history.
Jayden wasn’t listening. She was watching the water, tracking their course, calculating angles and distances.
There. The yacht, still anchored, still motionless. From this angle, she made out the flybridge, the tinted windows of the salon below. No visible movement on deck—Vic must have shifted position or moved below.
The ferry’s route would take them within fifty meters of the boat. Close enough.
Jayden stripped off her jacket, kicked off her shoes. A businessman in a suit gave her a startled look.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “Just going for a swim.”
The ferry cleared the boat’s stern. Jayden climbed over the railing.
And jumped.
