Dakota watched through his scope, searching desperately for movement in the foamy wake behind the boat—a head breaking the surface, an arm reaching up, anything.
Nothing.
The water settled. The ripples faded. The harbor went still.
From shore, security teams raced after the yacht, into the open ocean.
Dakota stood frozen on the terrace, rifle still raised, scope still fixed on the water where Jayden had disappeared.
He had saved the president.
He had stopped the assassin.
And he had watched the woman he loved take a bullet and fall into the dark, dirty water of the harbor.
And he could do nothing.
You’re never wrong if you’re trusting in God for the outcome.
Ham’s words echoed in the hollow space where his heart used to be.
He’d trusted. He’d had faith. He’d done everything right.
And this was the outcome.
The rifle slipped from his hands. Clattered against the terrace floor.
And then Dakota ran.
She wasn’t dead yet.
Jayden broke the surface gasping, choking on salt water, her lungs burning with the effort of finding air. The world spun—blue sky, white sails, the glittering expanse of Sydney Harbour wheeling around her like a carousel gone wrong.
She was in the water. She was bleeding. And Alan Martin was getting away.
The yacht was already fifty meters out, its white hull cutting a foamy trail toward the far side of the harbor.
The pain hit her then—a white-hot lance through her left side, just below her ribs. She looked down, saw the water around her blooming dark.
Shot. The word surfaced through the fog. Alan Martin had shot her.
Fragments came back in jagged pieces. The closet below deck, zip ties biting into her wrists. Working at the plastic until her fingers bled, until something finally gave. Kicking through the flimsy door—yacht locks built for privacy, not prison. The corridor, narrow and dim.
Alan appearing like a shadow, gun already raised.
The fight had been brutal and fast. Close quarters, no room for technique—just elbows and knees and desperation. And Alan had finally gotten her to the deck to, well, watch. Just like he’d promised.
Her entire body had turned to ice when Vic pulled the trigger. Probably, her getting shot was on her—she’d rallied, stood up, turned and kicked Martin, and he’d shot her, just like that.
The impact spun her into the railing. And then—over. The harbor rushing up to meet her, gulping her under, arms still tied.
She couldn’t get the force she needed to break the ties, and every kick earned her fire in her gut. She lay back, trying to breathe, to float, but the lapping water bled out over her face, into her nose.
She was going to drown.
And the president was dead.
Hopefully, Dakota had found the devices, saved lives. That mattered.
