And somewhere beyond that?—
Maybe.
Just maybe.
Home.
THIRTEEN
Focus on the blueprints.
The schematics of the Opera House spread across the table, every marked location circled and annotated. Dakota forced himself to focus on them—on sight lines and ventilation access and extraction routes—because focusing on the mission was easier than feeling the hollow space where his heart used to be.
She’d just walked. Away.
Three hours ago, outside the Opera House, she’d simply . . . ended it. No tears. No argument. No chance for him to understand what had changed.
And his gut feared the worst.
“Dakota.”
He looked up. Ham’s gaze met his from across the table, his mouth tight. West and Skeet flanked him—West with his arms crossed, Skeet leaning over the blueprints with a pen in hand.
“The assessment,” Ham prompted. “Walk us through it.”
Right. The mission. The reason he was here.
Dakota straightened, forcing Jayden into the compartment marked later. “West and I walked every marked location this morning. The Secret Service has been on-site for over a week, but they’re working from standard protocols. These marks”—he tapped the blueprint—“aren’t in their assessment.”
“And?” Ham leaned forward.
“They’re random corners, mostly. Some near ventilation systems, some near service corridors. I don’t know why they’re marked.”
“No viable sight lines,” West confirmed. “I checked every angle. None of these positions gives a clean shot to the main stage or the reception area. No extraction routes either—you’d be trapped the moment you fired.”
“So what are they for?” Skeet asked.
“That’s the question.” Dakota rubbed the back of his neck. “Could be reconnaissance markers—someone mapping the building for future reference. Could be misdirection, making us look in the wrong places while the real attack comes from somewhere else.”
“Or could be nothing,” Ham said quietly. “Random marks that mean nothing, leading us in circles.”
“Except we found this blueprint on a Russian server that Nimue hacked, and with the bag Dakota found, filled with rifle components—” Ham met Dakota’s eyes. “It just doesn’t sit right in my gut.”
Dakota’s either. “And that bag is still out there. The weapon is still unaccounted for. I got ahold of Bonnie, and she said it wasn’t in their lost luggage. So someone grabbed it.”
He wasn’t sure that someone didn’t have a name that started with J and rhymed with maiden.
The room went quiet. From the living room of their safe house, Sydney Harbour glittered through the windows—the Opera House sails bright in the afternoon sun, ferries crisscrossing the water, tourists already gathering along the quay.
“What about the woman?” West asked. “The one I met at the Opera House?”
Dakota’s chest tightened. “I don’t know. I saw her bag. It seemed like the contents of exactly who she said she was.”
Ham considered him. “You’re sure.”
“Yeah. I know what Coco found, but I think she’s wrong. Jayden Pierce is exactly who she said she is.”
And he hated himself a little for ever thinking otherwise.
