London’s eyes were steady. “Then a lot of people die.”
No pressure. Just the usual stakes—mass casualties, international incident, the weight of lives she’d never meet pressing down on her shoulders.
She nodded, hiding the sudden swipe of fatigue.
Not the kind of fatigue that a vacation fixed. The bone-deep kind. The kind that came from years of being everyone except yourself, from carrying secrets that could get people killed, from smiling at strangers while calculating threat levels and exit strategies.
Fellow Swan Emberly Hart had gotten out and retired to a quiet life with her fiancé, Steinbeck Kingston, trading dead drops and covert ops for remodeling her beach house in Florida. Sometimes Jayden let herself imagine what that would look like. A life where she could just . . . be. No masks. No covers. No wondering if today was the day her luck ran out.
One more mission. Finish Alan Martin and his game once and for all. Then maybe—maybe—she could find out who Jayden Pierce actually was when she wasn’t pretending.
“One more thing.” London’s voice dropped. “We’ve been compromised before. Luis Sousa played us for years. We found out the hard way in New York. Trust no one but yourself and your own instincts, Lynx. If something feels wrong?—”
“It probably is.”
London nodded. Something flickered in her expression—concern, maybe. The closest thing to warmth Jayden had seen from her handler in three years of working together.
“Your flight leaves in four hours,” London said, standing. She dropped enough cash on the table to cover both their meals and a generous tip. “Don’t take off that necklace. Not for security, not for airport lines, not for anyone.” She paused. “And Lynx—don’t mess this up. Alan Martin is relentless. He won’t stop his attempt to assassinate President White until it’s done.”
“Why is he so driven? Is it political?”
“I don’t know,” London said. “But find him, stop him, and if you can, apprehend him.”
“I’ll get it done,” Jayden said softly.
London nodded once and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of tourists heading for the beach.
Jayden sat for another moment, watching the waves break against the shore. The wind carried the scent of salt and plumeria, warm against her skin.
Almost as if she were really on vacation.
She gathered the items London had left and tucked the cross necklace beneath her blouse so it settled against her collarbone—a small, cool weight invisible to anyone who didn’t know to look. The burner phone joined her regular phone in her messenger bag, but she tucked the neurotoxin analysis inside her inspection evaluation notes—a.k.a. her cover.
Jayden Pierce, hotel inspector. On her way to evaluate properties in Australia. Nothing suspicious about her at all.
She tucked her notes into the front pouch of her carryon along with her camera equipment and clothing.
Jayden made her way through Honolulu International Airport’s overseas terminal with the unhurried pace of someone who’d learned that rushing drew attention. Her gray rolling bag—the same brand and color as approximately forty percent of the travel population—trailed behind her. Her backpack hung from her shoulder, heavy with notebooks and her tablet and the weight of everything London had given her.
Gate 34 was chaos.
A cluster of passengers surrounded the desk as a harried gate agent made announcements about an aircraft change, overhead bins, and complimentary gate checking.
She found a spot near the windows where she could watch both the gate desk and the main corridor, settled into one of the hard plastic chairs, and started cataloging.
An elderly man with binoculars around his neck was photographing a gecko on the windowsill. Tourist. Harmless. Probably a bird-watcher, based on the cargo shorts with fourteen pockets and the Hawaiian shirt.
A couple with matching luggage tags—European, by the cut of their clothes—stood near the gate desk. The man had military bearing. The woman was quieter, watchful, one hand resting on his arm. Newlyweds, maybe. Or operatives using marriage as cover.
She made a mental note to watch them.
A man near the pillar caught her attention. Brown hair, strong jaw, the kind of stubble that said he’d been traveling for a while and hadn’t bothered to shave. He stood with his weight balanced, shoulders relaxed but ready. His eyes moved in that constant sweep she recognized—exits, threats, civilians.
Military. Or former military. The posture never really went away.
He had a phone pressed to his ear, and even from across the gate area, she could see the tension in his jaw. Business call, probably. Or something else entirely.
He was also, objectively speaking, attractive. The kind of face that would make most women look twice. Strong features, warm blue eyes that probably crinkled when he smiled—not that he was smiling now.
