“Shooter on the boat.” He found the yacht moored in the harbor where he’d last seen it. And on the deck, a man with a rifle, settling into position behind the gunwale. Vic.
Dakota swung his scope down, following Vic’s line of sight.
The president.
Walking up the steps of the Opera House forecourt, surrounded by Secret Service, waving to the crowd. Completely exposed until he reached the bulletproof plexiglass.
Vic was taking aim.
Dakota’s finger found the trigger. He had one shot. He could make it from here—the range was long but manageable, the angle clean. Take out the assassin before he could fire.
And then he saw her.
On the deck, ten feet from Vic. On her knees. Hands behind her head. Jayden.
And behind her, a man with a pistol pressed to the back of her skull.
The world narrowed to two points in his scope. Vic, taking aim at the president. Jayden, seconds from execution.
He couldn’t take both shots. Not fast enough. The moment he fired at one, the other would act.
Kill the assassin, and Jayden died.
Save Jayden, and the president died.
One bullet. Two targets. An impossible choice.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
And yet, through the scope, he could see Jayden’s face. Calm. Resigned. She knew what was happening. Knew what he’d have to choose.
Her lips moved. He couldn’t hear her from this distance, but he could read her words.
Take the shot.
She was telling him to let her die.
Vic’s finger was tightening on his trigger.
I’m sorry.
Dakota pulled the trigger.
The crack of his rifle split the air. Vic jerked, the sniper rifle falling from his hands as he crumpled against the gunwale. The shot meant for the president went wide, sparking off concrete somewhere in the forecourt.
Screaming, Secret Service moving, the president down and now engulfed by suits, chaos erupting in the forecourt.
Dakota swung his rifle back to Jayden, already chambering another round?—
A shot. Her body jerked. She pitched forward. He saw her go over the side of the boat, into the dark water of Sydney Harbour.
“No!”
The word tore out of him, raw and broken. He fired again—but her killer had already ducked inside.
She’d fallen on the far side of the boat.
The boat suddenly surged, churning up water, fleeing.
