A collective groan rippled through the waiting area.
Dakota looked at his bag. The one containing his laptop with Sydney Opera House blueprints, venue specifications, and Jones, Inc., intel. The one he really, really didn’t want disappearing into the cargo hold.
The boarding area had filled since he’d arrived—a motley collection of tourists, business travelers, and a surprising number of people who apparently shared his taste in luggage. He counted at least two other gray rolling bags identical to his own.
Great. Because that wouldn’t cause any confusion at baggage claim.
What he hated most was the feeling crawling up his spine right now—that the universe had decided to shuffle the entire deck while he wasn’t looking.
Late-afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Honolulu airport terminal, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Just another layover in paradise.
Maybe he could blame his surly mood on the phone conversation he’d had with his boss, Hamilton Jones.
All roads point to Sydney.
Ham’s voice, tinny and grim, had crackled through the secure phone pressed to Dakota’s ear. Around him, passengers had shuffled toward Gate 34, a river of aloha shirts and rumpled business attire flowing past while he stood anchored near a pillar, watching.
Always watching.
“Alan Martin’s aliases are lighting up across the Pacific Rim,” Ham had continued. “Three confirmed sightings in the last week. Jakarta. Manila. The pattern suggests?—”
“The presidential summit.” Dakota had kept his voice low, his eyes still on the toddler he’d rescued earlier, the one in a dinosaur shirt who’d discovered that connected airport seats made an excellent climbing apparatus.
The kid’s mother had sat, oblivious to the preboarding option, thumbs flying across her phone screen.
“The president is speaking at the Opera House,” Ham said. “We’re not certain he’s the target, but it’s the most likely scenario. We need boots on the ground for advance assessment.”
The toddler had slid to the floor and then, seeing something, toddled off toward the busy walkway.
Aw. His sneakers—the kind with lights that blinked with every step—had blinked hard as he’d picked up speed.
Hey, Mom?—
But Dakota had already been moving.
He’d planted himself in front of the kid, catching his shoulder, and turned him around. “Not that way, buddy.”
The whole maneuver had taken maybe two seconds. The kid had blinked up at him with huge brown eyes.
“Yes, it’s me again.”
The mother had finally looked up, her expression cycling through confusion, alarm, and mortified gratitude in the span of a heartbeat. She’d gotten up and dashed to the boy. “Oh my—I’m so sorry, I didn’t—thank you.”
“Everything okay?” Ham had asked over the phone.
“Just a runaway. You need me in Sydney. Got it. What’s my timeline?”
“The summit’s in a week, so we’ve got breathing room. Meet with West and the team when you land. Start the assessment. Figure out what Martin’s planning—if he’s planning anything at all.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we’ve wasted some frequent-flyer miles and you get to see the Opera House. Win-win.”
Dakota had almost smiled. Almost. “Copy that.”
He’d ended the call and slid the phone into his jacket pocket, then added himself to the check-in line already forming.
A woman with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail stood near the front, her own gray rolling bag positioned beside her. She wore linen travel pants—wrinkled in the way that suggested she’d already been on at least one flight today—and a soft cardigan over a simple T-shirt. A leather messenger bag hung from her shoulder, stuffed thick with what looked like notebooks.
