“I know.”
“I’m going to find out who.”
The promise in his voice made her chest ache. He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know about the mission, the neurotoxin, her role in stopping the assassination of the president. But he was ready to hunt down whoever had targeted her, just because she mattered to him.
I could tell him, she thought. Right now. I could tell him everything.
But the boat was full of potential threats, and someone was watching, and this wasn’t the time or place for confessions.
“Dakota.” She kept her voice low. “Don’t make a scene. Please. If someone did this deliberately, we don’t want them to know we’re suspicious.”
He studied her face. Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe, of the fact that her response wasn’t quite what a normal hotel inspector would say.
“Who are you, Jayden?” he asked quietly.
The question hung between them. Loaded with everything they hadn’t said.
“Someone who’s very glad you were diving next to me.” She gave him a smile that was more real than anything she’d offered in years. “And someone who owes you dinner when we get back to shore.”
Not an answer. And maybe they both knew it.
But Dakota nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He stood and extended his hand. She took it, let him pull her to her feet, and didn’t let go even when she was standing.
Around them, the other divers were surfacing, oblivious to what had happened beneath the waves. Mags and Lily Winston chatted about the ray they’d seen. The Novaks laughed at something private, their heads close together.
One of them had tried to kill her.
And Jayden had no idea which one.
She tightened her grip on Dakota’s hand and watched them all climb aboard, smiling and chatting and pretending to be tourists.
Just like her.
The boat’s engine rumbled to life. Two hours back to port. Two hours trapped on a boat with a killer who knew she was onto them.
This was going to be a very long afternoon.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, SEVEN YEARS AGO
Alan Martin had forgotten what hope tasted like. That’s what happened when you sold your soul—or at least, it felt like that—for revenge.
And then he’d met Sophia Randall.
CIA department director, an analyst who had access to intel he needed. Yes, it had started as an op—Crowley’s orders: extract intel on the president’s movements, use the dating site setup to act as cover he needed to find her, woo her, develop her. Simple. Clinical. The kind of work that hadn’t required him to feel anything.
But Sophia hadn’t cooperated with clinical.
She’d sent him a message at 2:00 a.m. once:
Sophia
Do you ever wonder if you’re too broken to be worth fixing?
He’d stared at his phone for ten minutes before typing back:
Alan
