The mission. Alan Martin. The neurotoxin. The president’s visit.
Not the man who’d smiled at her over breakfast. Not the warmth that spread through her every time he laughed. Not the memory of his breathing in the dark.
She bought her ticket for the later flight—just in case he was on the earlier one—and told herself it was strategy, not avoidance.
The lie tasted bitter.
She grabbed the gray rolling bag and headed for the restroom.
The ladies’ room was empty—a small mercy. White tile, fluorescent lights, the sharp smell of industrial cleaner. She found the largest stall, locked the door, and hoisted the bag onto the fold-down changing table.
The tag read J. PIERCE. Her name in block letters. The tourist company had clearly added it. Her own flimsy tag must have fallen off.
But as she opened it, something felt off. The weight was different. Heavier on one side.
She unzipped it.
And froze.
Men’s clothes. A charcoal Henley, neatly folded. Dark jeans. A pair of running shoes. A toiletry bag in black leather.
And tucked in the top, a file folder with Dakota Rivers written on the front.
She’d grabbed Dakota’s bag instead of her own.
Which meant he probably had hers.
Her stomach dropped. Her bag—the one with her cover materials, her camera equipment, the neurotoxin analysis tucked inside her inspection notebook. If he searched it the way any suspicious person would search an unexpected bag?—
Calm down. The analysis was hidden. The notebook looked like standard hotel-inspection notes. He’d have no reason to dig deeper.
Unless he was exactly as observant as she suspected he was.
She stared at his bag. His clothes. His things.
She should close it. Respect his privacy. Find him and swap bags like a normal person.
But she wasn’t a normal person. She was an operative. And operatives didn’t pass up opportunities for intelligence, hello.
Her hands moved before her conscience could stop them.
The Henley was soft, well worn. She lifted it to her face without thinking and breathed in. No cologne. Just clean laundry and something warm underneath—soap, maybe. Him.
Good. Cologne gave her headaches. Made her sinuses swell. She’d spent more than one mission miserable because an asset bathed in Acqua Di Giò.
But still, what was she doing?
She set the shirt aside and kept searching.
The toiletry bag held standard items. Razor—quality brand, well maintained. Toothbrush in a travel case. A bottle of ibuprofen, half empty. Deodorant. No prescription medications, no suspicious substances. Everything organized, efficient, practical. The belongings of someone who traveled often and traveled light.
The running shoes were broken in but not worn out—someone who exercised regularly, kept his gear in good condition.
At the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a T-shirt, she found it.
A tablet.
She powered it on. Password protected. Of course.
