The chill speared through her, a thousand needles that sank in fast. For one terrifying moment, she couldn’t tell which way was up.
Then her head broke the surface, and she was gasping, treading water, orienting herself toward the white hull forty meters away.
She kicked hard, away from the wake of the ferry churning around her, and swam. Hard, fast strokes, cutting through the harbor chop. The ferry continued on its course, although she heard sirens sounding.
Sorry, guys.
She stilled, turned, and cast a look at the Opera House. She spotted the security cordon, the arriving dignitaries, the podium being set up for the president’s address.
Twenty-eight minutes, tops. She kept swimming.
She reached the boat’s stern, grabbed the swim platform, hauled herself up. Water streamed from her clothes, her hair plastered to her face, and she shook—adrenaline or cold, she couldn’t tell which.
No sign of Vic on the empty deck.
Jayden drew her weapon—thank you, Jones, Inc.—and moved forward, bare feet silent on the teak decking. Past a couple jet skis, a large seating area, a grill.
The salon door hung slightly ajar.
She paused, listening. No sound from inside. Maybe Vic was still on the forward deck. Maybe Jayden could come at him from behind, end this before it started.
She pushed open the door.
The salon was all polished wood and leather upholstery, the kind of casual luxury that cost more than most people made in a year. Tinted windows filtered the harbor light into something soft and golden.
And sitting on a sofa at the center of it all, a glass of whiskey in his hand, was a man she recognized from a hundred intelligence briefings.
Lean. Dark-haired. Handsome, in a different world. Eyes the green of deep water—cold and utterly without mercy.
Alan Martin.
Jayden’s blood turned to ice.
“Ah,” he said, swirling his whiskey with the casual air of a man welcoming an expected guest. “The infamous Lynx. I was wondering when you’d find us.”
Behind her, she heard movement. Too late. Something hard pressed against the back of her skull—the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel.
“Drop the weapon,” Vic’s voice said. Calm. Professional. Not the friendly stranger from the tour anymore.
Jayden’s gun clattered to the floor.
Alan Martin rose from his chair, still holding his whiskey, and walked toward her with an eerie, unhurried confidence.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, something European. “Six months of research, gone in a splash.”
Jayden said nothing. Her mind was racing—calculating distances, cataloging exits, looking for any advantage she could find.
Not a lot.
Alan tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. “I have to admit, I admire the audacity. The commitment. Very dramatic. Very Black Swan.”
“What do you want?” Jayden’s voice came out steadier than she felt.
“What I’ve always wanted. To finish what I started.” He smiled—a thin, cold expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “The president dies today. The summit collapses. And the chaos that follows . . . Well. Let’s just say we have plans for that too.”
“Jones, Inc., will stop you. They’re inside the Opera House right now, hunting your bio bombs.”
“Are they?” Alan’s smile widened. “How nice for them.” He leaned closer. “But there’s always a backup to the backup. You should know that by now.”
